Adventures of Ben Braden and Dean Winchester, Hunters Extraordinaire
by Captain Monster Masher
Summary: Glimpse into a future where Ben Braden is all grown up and hunting with Dean Winchester, the man Ben's admired from a distance & has no memory of. At first, hunting with his idol seems like a dream come true, but Ben quickly learns what hunting is really about and who the man behind the myth really is. Rated for language.
1. Ghost, Part I

**AN: This story began with a little one-shot I wrote about a month ago about Ben as a hunter, all grown up and how I thought Dean would react to this when the two meet (please tell me I'm not the only one who's pretty sure Ben showed signs of interest when it came to hunting!). It kind of snowballed from there and took a life of its own. As stories often do. You don't have to read it to get this as I feel I've summed it up pretty well here, but you're more than welcome to.  
**

**Like blood to a vampire, I feed on the life force that are reviews. So feed me! But more importantly, enjoy!**

_Shelbyville, Kentucky_

The first time I met Dean Winchester, he was surly. Tired, worn, and easily annoyed. The first time I met my idol, he told me to get out of the life. To lay my guns and knives down, walk away and do something that wouldn't endanger my mom or me.

So imagine my delight and surprise when I spy him sitting on an early 2000 model Harley, sipping whiskey from a silver flask just outside a pre-Civil War era mansion. Not that seeing another hunter at a house with a potential ghost problem is abnormal. Except that Dean Winchester is kind of like a ghost himself. A seldom seen, seldom heard legend that leaves his mark in blood before vanishing.

Also, he appears to be waiting for some one. The way he watches me as I slowly amble in his direction, the some one he appears to be waiting for is me.

Me. Ben Braden. A nobody young gun with dreams and aspirations to be just like my idol, Dean Winchester, despite the bitter old man he's become and his stern disapproval of my lifestyle choice.

I cautiously eye the aging hunter as I close in on him, studying his demeanor and appearance under the late afternoon's light. On the outside, he looks the same as he did when I first met him a few months back. His face looks weathered and rugged beneath a thick five o'clock shadow, matching the old leather jacket he wears despite the warm 60-something degree weather. Streaks of white wisp through his otherwise brunette hair just above his ears as wrinkles gently begin to settle themselves across his brow. A black patch conceals the place his left eye used to be and covers a small portion of the three deep scars that run parallel in a diagonal direction from his brow to his cheek bone.

The way he looks at me with his green eye, however, is not at all the same. This time he looks on with a vague twinkle of excitement.

"Took you long enough," he greets me once I've awkwardly approached the man and I can't help the confused crease my brows form at his statement.

"How did you..." I begin before I trail off in realization.

Flash back three days ago to Bellevue, Washington where I had just wrapped up a vampire case. A text message from an unknown and unidentifiable number came through that read this and only this;

38 12 44 85 13 33

It took me about five minuets to figure out it was a coordinate. The coordinate led me to web pages dedicated to the modest city of Shelbyville, which led me to the state of Kentucky when I discovered a slew of strange, ghosty sounding murders had taken place at a local Bed and Breakfast.

Honestly, I didn't question who had sent me the text. I figured it had been Garth or maybe some hunter on the lamb who wasn't allowed back in the particular state. Never in my wildest dreams did I think the message came from Dean "Get Out While You Can" Winchester.

"You sent me that text?" I vocalize my realization in the form of a question as Dean takes another swallow from his flask.

"You sound surprised," he comments and I can smell the whiskey on his words.

"No... well, yeah," I slowly admit. "I guess I thought the last time was kind of one of those once in a lifetime kind of deals." I pause before I awkwardly add, "Plus, you kind of told me I shouldn't be a hunter, so..."

"Yeah," he admits as he absently caps his container. "I also recall giving you one hell of a weapon when you refused to quit."

The demon blade. He didn't give it to me directly, but I knew it was meant for me when I found it in my room after our brief encounter. After all, I was the only one in that tavern he spoke a single word to.

"Come on," he climbs off his bike as he tucks his flask safely away in one of the inner pockets of his old jacket. "I reserved a room for you."

"So, this is happening?" I blink in disbelief, unable to move from my spot. "You're asking me to go hunting with you?"

"Sure," he shrugs as he slowly begins his ascent up the elegant stairway towards the front doors. "Why not? You seem like a capable young man."

Seriously? This is real life? The Dean Winchester wants to go hunting with me? I'm half tempted to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming, but I don't. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up just yet.

"You comin'?" Dean calls to me from the top of the staircase.

I give him a short nod as I scurry to catch up with him.

"This is a huge honor for me," I practically gush as we make our way toward the heavy oak doors. "Really. I just have one question."

"I'm sure you do," Dean mutters, not looking at me as he reaches for the brass handle.

"Do you really need help with a ghost?" I can't help but wonder.

"No," he easily admits, pushing open the large door. "I just thought you might like to go hunting with your idol or whatever it is you think I am. This was the first case I came up with. Now get in there or I'll do the damn thing myself."

"Yes sir!" I respond with a short salute as I scurry past him.

"Don't call me that," he grumbles.

xXxXx

There's a chance I'm too excited for this. It's like if Tony Stark came up to you and said "hey, we want you to join the Avengers". Or if Luke Skywalker swung by to tell you that you've got jedi powers and he needs you to help him save the universe.

I'm also incredibly nervous. This is my chance to prove to Dean, my idol, the man I've looked up to from afar, that I know what I'm doing. That I belong in this life. Which is really nerve-wracking when your idol is only the most legendary living hunter on the planet. It would be like a concert pianist playing in front of Mozart, or a student of astronomy presenting their thesis to Neil Degrasse Tyson.

I kind of lied when I told Dean I only had one question for him. I actually have about a dozen and a half questions, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. But as fate would have it, I'm not the only one with questions.

"Where are we starting?" he asks me once we've both settled into our lavish, too-nice-for-dirty-smelly-hunters-like-us rooms. He asks me this just after he's let himself into my room and finds me sitting on a queen sized bed with an open laptop.

"Um," I fumble with my response, temporarily confused as to why he of all people is asking me where to start. Maybe he's testing me, which is a thought that drives both my determination and my nerves up a few notches. "I was thinking we'd start here in the hotel. It's where all the murders have happened, right?"

"Okay," Dean nods as he draws his flask out from his back pocket. As he slowly screws the cap away from the lip, he asks "What's our angle? Feds? Reporters?"

"Curious bystanders?" I lay my response out in the form of a question and again Dean nods before taking a short drink.

"Because?" he presses me for my reasoning and now I know he's testing me.

"Anyone here knows more about what's going on than the cops do," I nervously begin. "If we're looking at a pissed off spirit, some one here has to have seen or heard something. The kind of something you don't want to tell cops or reporters."

Dean nods a third time. He takes another drink before pocketing his metal container.

"What do we know so far?" he asks, not revealing whether or not he finds my answers adequate.

"All three vics were bludgeoned to death," I report, my eyes between my hero and my computer screen. "Doors and windows were locked, no sign of forced entry or struggle." I pause to drag a second window into view. "According to their web site, this place was built in 1806. The surrounding acres were used to grow tobacco until around 1956. It's been a Bed and Breakfast ever since."

"Any deaths?" Dean wants to know and I shrug as my fingers quickly stroke the keyboard.

"Not that this web site would admit to," I say.

Once again, Dean just nods. The look on his face seems calm, but masked. Whatever he's thinking, he's not letting me know. I'm fairly confident in my hunting abilities, but I can't tell if I'm doing things right in his eyes or not.

The attractive young blonde at the front desk isn't completely unhelpful. As a member of the family owned business, she's been around long enough to know there's definitely a ghost or two milling around. Whether she knows it or not, her comment about the violent activity starting around the time they renovated the whole place was extremely helpful.

"What's that sound like to you?" Dean quizzes me as I drive us into town when we decide a trip to the record's hall is in order.

"Sounds like a Casper or two," I begin. "And one really pissed off ghost that's been asleep for a while."

Dean nods and takes a sip from his flask.

Digging through two centuries worth of records help, but not by much. The old house has experienced five deaths since its construction, none of which indicate a violent murder. Not on paper, anyway. And we can't find anything that would give reason for this sort of malevolence, either.

"What now?" Dean wants to know what I would do next.

"Check the place out after dark," I respond. "See if something comes out to play... or maim."

Dean nods.

So far, I think I'm passing his test, but I still can't tell. Each time I supply him with an answer, he just nods. And the questions aren't even close to coming to an end.

"What's your arsenal look like?" he wants to know as twilight ascends and we've reached our haunted lodgings.

I open the secret compartment I keep under the flatbed of my pickup and let Dean rummage through my somewhat organized stash of guns and knives, jars and jugs.

"Every hunter essential," I proudly show him my collection which he picks through with a thoughtful expression on his face, silently inventorying my stash. He picks up a long machete to test its edge. He replaces the blade with a sawed off shotgun and checks the rounds. He hands this to me before studying a polished silver handgun. His studious face turns into mild amusement when his hands find my water pistols and Super Soakers I use when I'm hunting demons.

Carefully, in the rapidly waning light of the day, Dean inspects my entire arsenal before he helps himself to my backup sawed off shot gun and pockets a box of ready salt rounds.

"Not that I'm against sharing," I begin, watching as Dean takes out his flask. "But don't you have your own shotgun?"

Dean smiles at this before taking a long drink.

"You got a duffel?" he doesn't bother answering my question. "We don't want to freak out any of the living."

From my private, hidden stash of weaponry I pull out a medium sized black duffel bag and hand it to Dean.

"Great," he takes this from me with his left hand as he extends his flask towards me with his right. "You want a sip?"

"Sure," I shrug and accept the offering. It's not until I've tilted the object upside down that I realize Dean has polished it off.

"It's empty," I inform him, passing it back.

"I know," he nods, loading our weapons into the bag. "That was a test. Like I'm gonna let you drink before a hunt."

"But you've been drinking all day," I point out before I can think better of it.

"Yeah," he doesn't attempt denial as he turns and heads towards the house. "But I'm a professional."

"A professional drinker?" I mumble quietly before following him.

To be perfectly honest, this hunt is actually going better than expected. Rather, better than I could have realistically expected. In the fantasy part of my mind, Dean told me everything I was doing was great, just perfect. That I was a natural and he'd be honored to take me on as his next partner. The realist side of my brain told me he was going to bark orders, tell me I was doing it all wrong and then, before we could reach the gory parts of the hunt, he'd send me on my way while bitterly grumbling he should have just taken care of it on his own and that I should reconsider ditching the life.

I'm totally cool with middle ground here.

**AN: Stay tuned for the conclusion of Ben and Dean's first ever team up!  
**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the title as Fangirl and I wear it proudly. I'm not affiliated with the CW, Supernatural or anyone associated with them (which sucks cause that Misha Collins guy looks like he'd be a fun person to know). I'm not profiting from this, bla bla bla. **


	2. Ghost, Part II

We hang around in my room for a couple hours, quietly watching bad television while we wait for the other guests to hit the hay before we realize there are no other guests. That is, before _I_ realize we're the only occupants. If Dean had noticed, he'd kept this small detail to himself.

"I can't help but feel like you're testing me," I confess to him as we carefully stalk the abandoned corridors of the large house with our sawed off, salt loaded shotguns and EMF detectors.

To this, Dean has no reaction. No head nod, no facial expression. Nothing that would indicate he had even heard me. He keeps his eye between the battered gadget in his hand and the seemingly empty hallway.

"This place kind of reminds me of a case I did a couple years back," I say, eyeing him for a reaction, any reaction. "Down in Georgia. It was this old cotton plantation turned museum." I pause to see if Dean's listening and, while I'm sure he can hear me, he gives no indication that he has. "Can't say I'm fond of the museum spirits. I mean, I got the job done, but they're tricky hauntings. There's usually at least a hand full of spirits hanging around and you gotta figure out who's attached to what and what ghost needs a good old salt 'n burn."

Still nothing. Dean pokes his head through open doors and dark corners, but he doesn't respond.

"So... how 'bout them Lions?" I try.

Dean groans as he rolls his green eye at me.

"Are you always this noisy on a hunt?" he asks with a mild impatience in his breath.

"Depends on what I'm hunting," I give him an honest answer and a short shrug. "It's not like murder happy ghosts are all that put off by noise, you know."

"Just make sure you're keeping your eyes peeled," he instructs me with a short grunt.

"First case I ever did was a ghost," I tell him. Never mind the fact I finally have an opportunity to be asking him the questions. I've suddenly gotten quite shy about it. Instead I babble on about myself because, honestly, I have to babble about something. It soothes the nerves.

"It wasn't too far from home, in Grand Rapids, Michigan," I ramble on. "I'd picked up a few tricks from this really silly web site where two goof balls tried to teach ghost hunting tricks. They called themselves the Ghostfacers."

I can hear Dean choke on his own spit at this and I can't tell if the sound that emits from his throat is a laugh or a groan.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, stifling a laugh as he looks at me. "You were serious when you said you got into this whole crap shoot of a life, weren't you? You just plunged in on a hunch?"

"Yeah," I nod to confirm this.

"You're telling me you seriously just believed in all this crap," Dean goes on in an annoyed disbelief, temporarily halting in our wanderings. "Ghosts, demons, monsters. You believed these things all existed with no reason?"

"Yeah, I know," I shake my head. "I gotta come up with a cooler origin story."

"You seriously never saw a ghost?" Dean keeps pressing me. "Or, I don't know, got kidnapped by demons? Or changelings?"

"Nope," I shake my head again but shudder slightly at the word "changeling".

"You never ever met another hunter?" he presses and, once more, I shake my head. For a minuet he studies me and, once he determines my sincerity to be genuine, he shakes his own head and slowly returns to strolling the hall. "You must be crazier than the rest of us, voluntarily gettin' yourself into a life like this on a hunch."

"Maybe I am," I say with a small smile. I pause, working up the courage to begin my own round of questions. "What about you?" I begin with a nervous breath. "Is it true what they say about you, how you got into this life? With you mom...?"

"We're not going to talk about that," he tells me shortly before swiftly turning away from me. "Why don't you scout the third floor. We'll cover more ground if we split up."

The words have barely left his lips when both of our EMF detectors go berserk and our breath clings to the suddenly icy air. We exchange a knowing glance before readying our weapons. Without direction, I turn my back to Dean to cover us on the south side of the hall while the older hunter keeps his eye on the north.

A few minutes pass like hours as Dean and I each keep watch for an apparition to take form. I can hear my heart rate spike as we wait, my finger slowly reaching for the trigger. Dean grumbles in annoyance at the high pitched whine the detectors give off before he switches his off.

At last a ghost appears in the form of a young female, dressed in Victorian style clothing. She materializes six, maybe six and a half feet from me.

"Dean," I speak in a whisper. "Dean, turn around."

The older hunter whirls on his heels. His every reflex and instinct tell him to take aim and fire, just as the muscles in my finger scream and twitch for me to take my shot. Blast this bitch into temporary oblivion. But I can't. The way she looks at me, she's not pissed off. Her sad, gray eyes tell me she's not the vengeful spirit behind the bludgeonings.

"Dean, wait!" I hiss, throwing my right hand up to lower the barrel of his gun.

"What?" he asks. "Why?"

"She's a Casper," I tell him, my eyes fashioned on the ghost girl before us. "She's not the one we're after."

"What?" Dean seems confused by my statement. "How do you know?"

"She's not attacking us," I point out. "And she didn't try to sneak up on us."

At first, Dean seems hesitant. He stares between me and the girl with his gun aimed, his finger on the trigger. After some careful consideration, he realizes that I'm right, and he slowly lowers his weapon.

"What's your name?" I gently ask the spirit who continues to stare. "I'm Ben. That's Dean. We're trying to find the spirit killing all these people. Do you know who it is?"

The ghost says nothing, but slowly and timidly nods.

"Can you tell us?" I ask in a calm, hopeful tone.

The spirit girl thinks about it for a moment before nodding again. Without a spoken word, she silently beckons for us to follow her. Dean and I exchange a short glance and a "what have we got to loose?" shoulder shrug before cautiously following her.

Silently, wordlessly, we follow the spirit down the long corridor, keeping our distance as we make quiet steps. We each hold our guns low but ready and Dean's eye wanders between our guide and our surroundings. It's at the top of the grand, winding staircase the ghost pauses. She waits for us to catch up to her and, once she finds that we're close enough, she points down at something on the main floor. Both Dean and I follow her finger, our eyes landing on the young woman who runs the front desk. She's doing the night audit. And she's not alone.

Directly behind the woman - Abby, I think her name is - stands a really pissed off looking ghost of a woman who wears a 1950's style dress and a wicked smile. Her sunken eyes are focused on the young blonde before her, as her arms slowly rise to expose a croquet mallet clutched tightly in her ghost fists.

"Abby!" I call out to the blissfully unaware desk attendant.

Looking up, Abby's look of concentration melts rapidly into fear when she spies Dean and I standing at the top of the stair case wielding sawed off shotguns which are, seemingly, aimed directly at her.

"Behind you!" I shout before she can scream.

Reluctantly, Abby turns. The bloodcurdling scream she emits pierces my ears as Dean and I leap and bound down the staircase. The smile the evil spirit wears grows wider as her mallet begins to descend. We're not gonna make it.

"Duck!" Dean cries out, something he doesn't have to tell Abby twice. The young blonde sinks to the ground, disappearing behind her desk not even a full second before Dean fires off a round of rock salt. The ghost vaporizes as I run to check on a more than startled Abby.

"Are you okay?" I ask the visibly shaken woman whose eyes stare wide at the spot the ghost used to be.

"I... I... I..." she stammers, slowly accepting my hand for support. "What the... what the hell was that!?"

"That was a ghost," Dean doesn't bother to sugar coat it for her as he replenishes his gun with another round.

"Seriously?" Abby asks with a terrified disbelief as I pull her to her feet.

"Unfortunately," I confirm.

"I mean, I've heard them," she goes on, still staring. "But I've never seen... was she about to bash my head in with a croquet mallet?"

"Looks that way," Dean nods. "You wouldn't happen to know who that was, would you?"

"N-no," Abby shakes her head, her gaze turning from Dean to me. "Not personally, I mean. But she..." She pauses to let out a short laugh. "She kind of looked like my great aunt."

"Did your aunt happen to die here?" Dean hastily interrogates her while his eye sweeps the room.

"No," Abby shakes her head again. "I mean, I don't know. I've only seen pictures of her. She went missing in the 50's before my grandparents bought the place from her husband."

"Just before it turned into a Bed and Breakfast," I say and Abby nods.

"My grandpa used to tell me it'd been my great aunt's dream to open a Bed and Breakfast," Abby absently elaborates, chattering away her nerves. "But her husband didn't like the thought of giving up the tobacco operation. She got the house all changed and ready to open for guests right before she went missing."

"I hate to break it to you, Abby," I gently say. "But I don't think your great aunt ever left."

"Did you see the side of her head?" Dean asks and both Abby and I shake our head. "Looks like it got smashed in. I'm guessing with a croquet mallet."

"That's weird you say that," Abby says. "There's an antique set in the shed out back. It's been missing one mallet since, well, forever I guess."

Dean and I exchange a knowing glance.

"You know of anywhere around here a body might be buried?" Dean asks, a question that makes Abby somewhat sick just thinking about.

"What?" she questions with a note of disgust. "No!"

"Listen," I try to coax her anxieties down. "I know this all seems really weird, but we're here to help. But we can't do that if we can't find the body and you're the only one here who knows the property."

Abby looks between Dean and myself with a raised brow, attempting to determine just how sincere we're being.

"Why... why?" she asks at last and Dean impatiently rolls his eye.

"We have to salt and burn the remains," I tell her.

"Ew," Abby wrinkles her nose. "Why?"

"Just trust us, huh?" Dean grumbles. "You wanna help us out or should we leave and let your great aunt break your brains?"

The young blonde timidly bites her bottom lip as she looks between us, racking her brain for a possible burial site.

"Out back," she says at last. "Behind the shed. There's an old bench that nobody likes sitting on."

"Why?" Dean skeptically questions.

"It's really uncomfortable," Abby tries to explain. "Not physically. It just gives everyone a creepy vibe. And it's always freezing, even on the hottest day."

"Works for me," Dean nods, motioning for us to follow him.

"What, me too?" Abby reluctantly asks, not particularly enthusiastic about watching a couple of strangers digging up bones.

"You live here, right?" I ask and she nods. "You better stick with us then."

Begrudgingly Abby follows Dean and I into the night. We retrieve a shovel from my pick up and Abby supplies us with an extra one from the shed. We move the bench and Dean and I take turns between digging and keeping watch for Abby's great aunt.

"Who are you guys, anyway?" Abby begins asking the standard questions most witnesses of the paranormal have.

"People who know about this kind of thing," I say with a shrug, cradling my shotgun as Dean heaves piles of dirt out of the steadily growing hole.

"What, you and your dad just drive around looking for pissed off ghosts?" she wonders out loud.

"More or less," I nod with a half smile. "He's not my dad."

"Damn," she mutters. "And I thought my job sucked."

"Yahtzee," Dean speaks, gently removing dirt now. Abby and I turn our gaze downwards and spy the set of bones the older hunter has managed to unearth. Once he's removed enough dirt, Dean climbs out and throws his shovel down.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I instruct Abby. "Sometimes ghosts know they're about to get busted."

Abby nods and timidly accepts my extra shotgun, her eyes scanning the property under the light of a crescent moon. Dean douses the dry bones in salt and gasoline before striking a match. Which is, of course, when great auntie decides to show up.

"G-guys!" Abby stammers. She fires off a round of salt but misses. Before I can come to the young woman's rescue, Dean drops the match and we watch the ghost wither in screaming pain as it burns and fades away.

"Is... is she gone?" Abby stammers, her eyes franticly searching the vast yard.

"Yep," Dean nods.

"I don't know if I should thank you or throw up," Abby admits, relinquishing the shotgun. "I'm totally looking for a new place to live tomorrow."

xXxXxXx

Dean and I take a four hour nap and rise just after the sun. We pack our belongings, check out and head into the bright, morning sun with a sense of accomplishment. We saved a life and killed a ghost, which means we did a job well done.

In all honesty, despite last night's accomplishments, I'm a little disappointed. Not because Dean was too quiet or because I feel like I failed any of his tests. We met up and knocked out a case in less than 24 hours. I should feel proud about that, but, to me, that's too short of a time to spend hunting with my idol. I would have loved to hang out with him for a few more days. You know, really get to know the bitter old bastard.

"Well, that was kind of awesome," I tell him as he straps his pack to the back of his bike.

As short of a hunt as it was, I'm not lying. It really was awesome to hunt with him.

"Yeah," he says, not looking up at me as he speaks with a note of sarcasm. "Hunting ghosts is definitely awesome."

"I meant the team up," I clarify. "It was an honor hunting with you."

Dean straightens up and looks at me but says nothing.

"Did I pass your test?" I ask and he gives this some thought.

"The aim on your shotgun," he speaks. "It's a little off."

Dean falls silent and I realize that's all I'm going to get out of him. No "great job, kid" or even a "you did alright". Just a mild criticism on my weaponry.

"So, uh," I go on awkwardly, not in any particular hurry to depart his company, despite his grumpy demeanor. "Where you headed?"

"Millville, New Jersey," he responds, climbing onto his Harley. "Caught wind of what looks like another vengeful spirit case." He pauses, kicking back the kick stand before looking up at me. "You wanna follow me or should I follow you?"

For a minute, all I can do is blinkingly stare with a look of awe.

"Are you... seriously?" I stammer out.

"As long as you quit looking at me like that, yes," Dean nods.

"I would... that would be... holy shit," I babble and I know the grin I've got spread across my face just looks ridiculous. "I mean," I attempt to calm my ever growing excitement and maintain a straight face. "I'll follow you."

"Good," Dean nods as he starts his bike. "Don't follow too close."

My thoughts completely scatter into dream land as I climb into my beat up old truck with a giddy bounce. This is really happening. I'm going hunting with Dean Winchester. Again.

I think this means I passed his test.

**What will Dean and Ben be hunting next? Will Ben win a spot as Dean's official hunting partner? Will Dean be willing to open up to Ben's 100 questions? When are we going to find out where Sam is, and how did Dean loose his eye? Stay tuned to find out!  
**

**I promise the next hunts won't be so detailed/lengthy. This chapter kind of got away from me so I broke it into two chapters. My goal is to make the story seem like something you'd watch as future episodes. Make it as realistic as possible. You know, for a universe filled with monsters, demons, angels and magic galore.**

**Reviews make my day!**


	3. Revenant!

_Welcome back followers! I kind of lied when I said the following chapters wouldn't be so long. Kind of. Attempting to fit a bunch of dialogue and monster slaying in so many words is hard when you really want to retain the necessary details of your tale. Anyway, it's not as bad as it looks; a lot of the length of this chapter is due to dialogue spacing, so it's really not **that** long.  
As far as updates go, I am going to put forth the effort to make it somewhat regular/frequent. There are only so many hours in a day I can stare at a screen though, and even less now that I find myself (more) easily nauseated by things like computer screens and words and such. I might need reading glasses. It's probably because I'm knocked up though (although I believe I'm technically just pregnant, not knocked up, since this happened on purpose).  
TMI.  
Let's check in on what Ben and Dean are up__ to._  
_  
_

**_Millville, New Jersey_**

My fingers fiddle with the radio dial on the dash of my '88 Ford pick up, flashing between static, terrible pop, country, and more static. And old pop song comes on from my high school days and I cringe as a female singer croons something about the "eye of the tiger".

"I can't believe she got away with those lyrics," I mutter to myself. "Everyone knows Survivor owns that shit. That's, like, rock and roll blasphemy."

The dial finds more static and rolls past a hip hop tune before it finds classic rock. Santana reaches my ears in the form of _Oye Como Va_ and I bob my head as my fingers reach for the volume knob and crack it up a few notches. More than satisfied with the tunes, I return my focus to the dark lot before me, casually sipping cola from my big red plastic cup.

So far this case is kind of similar to the last one. That is, to say, the way we're doing things is similar. Apparently Dean wasn't completely satisfied with the last test he gave me and we've been doing everything according to what I would do. Dean asks me what we're doing, where we're going, and every time I supply him with an answer, he nods his head and takes a swig from the silver flask that never seems to run empty until he offers me a sip.

The actual case itself is a lot different than the last one. First of all, it's taking us longer to crack the case open. We've been in the state for three days now. Second, our vengeful spirit turned out to be a pissed off revenant. It was the discovery of the undead that lead us here.

"Here" being the closest funeral parlor. I'm the watchman and the getaway driver. My post is my idling piece of crap truck sitting in the back lot as I keep a lookout for cops. Dean, he's inside the parlor, attempting to lift a coffin. The revenant we're dealing with was smart enough to destroy his own casket, which means he's not going to be an easy one to take down.

I'm personally excited I finally get to see some action and really show off my skills.

An unexpected and sudden "bang!" emits from the flatbed behind me. I almost spill my soda when Dean pulls the passenger door open and quickly slides inside only seconds later.

"I don't know what's louder," he grumbles as he gets in. "Your truck or your music."

"Sorry," I apologize, glancing back to find a maple wood casket laying in the flatbed. "It's the muffler."

"From the sounds of it, the muffler is the least of your worries," Dean says, shifting his eye about the empty lot. "Lets just get out of here before anyone notices."

I do as I'm instructed and slowly pull away from the funeral parlor and into traffic.

"How are we going to lure this thing in there, anyway?" I question.

"I don't know," Dean shrugs as he digs his flask out from his inner jacket pocket. "This was your idea. You got wooden stakes, right?"

"Yeah," I nod. "A couple."

Dean just nods before taking a long, hard drink from his flask. Most of the ride back to our motel is made in silence, save for the songs of classic rock gods that serenade us through fuzzy speakers. It's when we've come within a half mile of our destination I finally work up the courage to ask him a question, the one that's really been nagging me since we hit New Jersey.

"So, New Jersey," I pretend to make casual conversation. "You, uh, you do a lot of hunting out here?"

"If it's about my eye," Dean knows exactly what I'm trying to ask. "Yes, I lost it in New Jersey."

"So, you really took down the Jersey Devil?" I ask with an air of awe in my voice. Dean lets out a short, soft snort before taking another quick sip of whiskey.

"I hate to break it to you," he begins as he twists the cap back onto his flask and carefully tucks it away. "But there's no such thing as the Jersey Devil."

"Oh," I say with a breath of disappointment. "What, um, what was it?"

"A griffin," he tells me, his eyes focused on the road before us as he speaks. My jaw drops.

"No way," is all I can say.

"Way," he returns with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You tackled a griffin by yourself?" I ask in disbelief, unable to hide the excitement in my tone as I visualize Dean, the mortal warrior, going head to head with the Greek beast of ancient myth. "That's badass!"

"Yeah," Dean rolls his remaining eye, laying the sarcasm on thick this time. "Looking like a pirate is totally badass."

"I was going to say you look more like Nick Furry," I tell him as I pull into our motel parking lot and he grunts but says nothing.

We climb out of my truck and I've made it as far as my room door when Dean loudly clears his throat. I snap my gaze up at him and notice he's still standing beside my truck.

"You're just gonna leave a coffin sitting out in the open then?" he questions. I can feel my cheeks grow mildly warm and I know they're flushing from embarrassment.

"Right," I mutter as I hurry past him and scramble into my flatbed to pull a blue tarp over our stolen casket. It was bound to happen, me screwing up in Dean's presence. I just hope this is the only thing I screw up. I'd hate to be the cause of Dean loosing a limb or an organ to go along with his missing eye. Or, you know, getting my own intestines ripped out. I guess that would be pretty bad too.

Revenants are a lot more rare than angry spirits. They're even more rare than demons, which is a fact I find both comforting and chilling. I've personally never dealt with one and, because of this, I don't really know a lot about them. Dean lets me know he knows this when he hands me two old, leather bound journals and says, "you kill a revenant with silver stakes, not wood" and tells me to study up. I spend a good part of the evening going between the journals of John Winchester and Robert Singer, the internet, and slow texts with Garth while Dean silently sips cheap beer and watches reruns of shows that aired before I was even born.

"My brain is going to explode," I speak up somewhere close to 3 am, running a hand down my face in exhaustion.

"That's a good sign," Dean says, muting the TV and turning his attention to me. "What have we learned?"

"According to the internet," I slowly begin, furiously blinking in an attempt to wet my otherwise severely dry eyeballs. "To kill a revenant, you have to cut out its heart. Or burn it. According to the journals and Garth, you have to nail it into a coffin with a silver stake. Personally, I trust three veteran hunters over Wikipedia, but that's just because I'm smart."

Dean gives me a small, short smile.

"What else?" he presses.

"Revenants only come out at night," I go on, stretching my arms as I stifle a yawn. "Most vampire lore comes from revenants, like the whole allergy to sunlight. They terrorize the living, usually surviving family and friends, and to become a revenant, the reanimated corpse had to have been a pretty big bag of dicks when they were alive."

Dean nods, slowly rising from his seat on the foot of the bed. He polishes off his beer and lets loose a short belch.

"Alright," he says, satisfied with what I've learned about the rare form of undead. "Let's go."

"What?" I stare at him through tired eyes. "Right now?"

"Yeah," Dean says, the expression on his face indicating this should be obvious. "We've only got a few more hours till sunup. You wanna stick around Jersey for another day or you wanna go kill a revenant?"

"Kill a revenant, I guess," I reply, slowly rising from my spot at the motel desk. I close my computer and attempt to cover a yawn before grabbing my army green jacket from the back of the chair.

"Any ideas on how we're going to lure it into the casket?" I ask, throwing my jacket around my shoulders.

"I don't know," he shrugs as he opens the door. "Whattcha got?"

"Um..." I stare blankly at the aging hunter who gives me an expectant, I'm waiting look. "I, uh, I haven't come up with anything."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he tells me with a mild air of confidence. "You're driving."

xXxXxXx

Note to self: next time someone tells you to go find a revenant, figure out where said revenant might hang out before you spend 20 minuets aimlessly driving around an unfamiliar city lost between thoughts on how to shove the vampire cousin into a casket and nervously blathering on about how, this one time, near an abandoned band camp, you raided this nest with your hunter friend Netta but it turned out to be a Twilight cosplay thing and holy crap you should have seen all the glitter.

That's a true story, by the way.

But not a good time to share it.

"Great story," Dean tells me, his eye on the darkened streets that stretch out before us. "Really. Quick question thought; where are we?"

My foot swiftly finds the brake and it suddenly occurs to me that I have absolutely no clue where we are or where we're going.

"Damn it," I mutter, mortified by my second mistake of the night. Hesitantly I glance over at Dean who calmly pulls a crumpled piece of computer paper out of his jeans pocket. He unfolds it before he passes it to me. Map Quest directions.

He silently waits for me to figure out where we are and where the revenant sightings have been. It doesn't take me long to discover I've taken us to the wrong side of the city.

"You could have told me," I grumble as I slowly make a u-turn.

"I just did," Dean points out and I roll my eyes.

For a while we ride in silence as I steer my truck in the right direction, glancing between the black and white map in my lap and street signs. There are still so many things I want to ask him, yet I'm still hesitant. At first it was because I didn't want to seem like a fanboy, but now I can't tell if it's because he doesn't seem interested in sharing or if I suddenly find myself clinging to the legends as they are.

"Can I ask you a question?" I finally break the quietude, deciding I really do want to know the truth.

"Why not?" Dean returns as he digs out his flask.

"Your angel friend, Castiel," I begin. "Is he still around?"

I've never met an angel before and the prospect is intriguing to me.

"If I was hanging out with angels, do you think I'd be walking around looking like Nick Furry?" Dean responds to my question with another question. He makes a valid point, one I didn't really consider. I silently nod and watch him take a long sip from his flask.

"What happened to him?" I have to know. Dean remains silent for a moment, leaving me guessing whether or not he's going to reply.

"What eventually happens to everyone," he reveals at last. "Park right here. You got binoculars?"

I motion to my glove box as I ease my piece of crap truck to a halt along the curbside and kill the engine.

"So, he's dead?" I press as Dean brings forth my cheap pair of binoculars and lifts them to his eye. I resist the urge to offer to man the viewing spectacles since I have both eyes, but I think better of it and keep my mouth shut.

"Yep," Dean distantly replies, looking out over the neighborhood for signs of our monster de jour.

"How'd he go?" I ask, something Dean doesn't respond to.

"You come up with any ideas on how we're gonna get this sucker in the coffin?" is what he says instead, signaling he's done talking about his deceased friend.

"Um..." I fumble. "I was thinking our best shot would be to incapacitate him somehow. Maybe with explosives?"

Dean jerks the binoculars away from his face as his brows crease and he gives me that _"are you serious?"_ look.

"You want to blow up a revenant in a residential neighborhood?" he attempts to clarify my brain storm. Hearing the plan out loud does make it sound kind of ridiculous.

"Wood chipper?" I suggest and Dean rolls his eye. "No, wait, I got it," I quickly add, attempting to recover my terrible ideas. "What if we cut his head off? I know it won't kill him, but it'll stop him long enough for us to lift him in the casket and nail him down."

"That sounds a little more practical," Dean confirms as he returns his gaze to his neighborhood watch. "You got a blade handy?"

I nod as I reach for the machete I keep between the driver and passenger's seats.

"Good," Dean says, pointing down the street. "Cause we got company."

My stomach jumps into my throat as I nervously gulp. It's not tangling with the undead that makes me anxious, but the fact I can finally prove to my idol that I'm a capable (and badass) hunter.

_Don't screw it up, Ben,_ I keep muttering to myself as I climb out of the truck and slowly make my way into the street, my machete gripped tightly in my right hand. _Do this like the pro you are._

I walk into the center of the darkened street, stopping somewhere between street lights. The revenant, who stands a half block away, stares me down. This continues for a minute or two as we each await the other to make a move and start this battle. It's the revenant who decides to come at me, making tracks at a pace somewhere between a walk and a jog. I ready myself for him, drawing my blade back with both hands as if I were holding a bat and the monster was the approaching baseball.

The revenant lets out a loud, angry hiss when he's a couple of houses away. My stomach lurches with excitement. I finally get to show Dean what I'm made of. I finally get to prove I'm in the right field...

A gunshot rings out from behind me and the revenant screams in pain as his left knee buckles. A second shot emits and the monster crumples to the asphalt in a fit of rage filled pain. My jaw drops in disbelief as I turn on a swift heel and stare at my idol, who casually holds a silver pistol in his right hand.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks me, motioning towards the downed monster with his gun. "Go chop the damn thing's head off."

"I had him!" I insist angrily in a voice a few notches above a whisper, despite the fact the gun probably gave us up.

"There's not a single monster on this planet who's dumb enough to charge himself into a freaking machete," Dean tells me as he carefully places his firearm back in the inner pocket of his jacket. "He would have had you on the ground before you could have given him so much as a scratch. Now go cut his head off before he can stand up." He pauses to take a sip from his flask. "And before the cops get here."

I grumble inaudibly to myself, beyond disappointed by my inability to show Dean how awesome I am at the job. I do as I'm told, taking the monster's head off with a clean, downward swing as I think about how I'm kind of pissed at Dean too. He could have let me duke it out with the thing, but he had to go and show me up before the revenant even came within striking range.

Dean helps me gather the remains and we manage to shove everything inside the satin lined casket and stake it down with silver in under five minuets. Thirty minuets later, we've gathered our things from the motel and we're making tracks out of town, Dean leading the way on his Harley. By the time the sun's come up, we've got the thing buried as deep as possible in a cluster of trees just beyond the highway.

Now that the sun is up and the birds are chirping happily in a bright, blue sky, I'm ready for a nap. But Dean's still got plenty of energy left.

"Why don't you follow me for a few states," he half suggests, half orders as he wipes dirt from his fingers onto his jeans.

So I do, partially because I'm too tired to argue, but also because, at the moment, I've got nothing better to be doing. Other than catching up on some shut eye.

While I tail Dean (close, but not too close, just as he instructed me), I decide I'm not too mad at him. While I would have appreciated him just telling me what I needed to know or how to cripple a revenant the easy way, I can kind of see what his goal was. He wanted me to learn the hard way, because when you learn something the hard way, it has a tendency to stick around in your brain better. I know I'm not forgetting that lesson for a while.

We travel north west for the duration of the day, stopping only for gas and coffee as needed. At long last, a good hour or so after sundown, Dean leads me to a quiet storage facility near the Ohio/Indiana boarder. At this point, I'm so tired and hungry, I don't really care what we're doing here.

That is, until Dean opens one of the lockers.

"Damn," I whistle, inviting myself into the spacious unit which is mostly empty, save for the jet black 1967 Chevy Impala in near mint condition. "That's a sweet ride."

"That it is," Dean proudly nods in agreement as he unscrews the cap on his silver flask and takes a quick sip. "Runs better than that heap you drive." He pauses to take another sip of whiskey, glancing between me and the Impala as he does so. "What do you say we retire that hunk'a junk out there?"

For a minute, I don't say anything. I blink up at Dean with wide eyes.

"You're... you're not giving me this?" I begin, somewhat uncertain as to what he's getting at.

"What?" Dean wrinkles his brows. "No. Of course not."

"Are you asking me to ride with you?" I ask, my pulse rising in an excitement I can barely contain.

"Yeah," he replies, giving me that "no duh" look as he caps his container and places back in his pocket. "You up for it?"

"Am I up for it?" I echo, attempting not to sound too much like a giddy school girl. "_Am I up for it?_ Are you freaking kidding me?"

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean mutters to himself with a small, almost undetectable smile.

Is this really happening? Is this real life? Am I seriously about to actually hit the road with _the_ Dean Winchester?

"Does this make us official hunting partners?" I ask with a wide grin and Dean rolls his green eye at me.

"Just load up, huh?" he says. "I wanna get some grub before we hit the road again."

"Aye, aye, captain!" I say with a salute and a smile. Dean's brows fold in a complete lack of amusement.

"You say that again," he warns, "and I'll _officially_ kick your ass."

Like that's gonna wipe the smirk off my face. Nothing short of Apocalypse 2.0 is going to be able to accomplish that for at least a week.

_What's next for Ben and Dean? How long will Ben's excitement last? Will Dean ever warm up to his new partner? And where the ever-lovin' hell is Sam? Stay tuned and you just might find out! And don't forget to review! They keep me alive!_


	4. Unlucky Charms, Part I

_Happy St. Patrick's Day! I really wanted to have both parts of this up by today (you'll see why), but my brain has limited functionability these days so you'll have to wait a few days for the second part.  
Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review. It really makes my day. A very special thanks to **GrammarDemon** for all the lovely reviews and for sending readers my way. She's awesome. She's also an excellent fanfictionist, so if you haven't yet, be sure to check out her highly entertaining tales of Wincheste__r debauchery. Also, special thanks to my (almost) six year old daughter for musing me this chapter's monster de jour. And, I guess, her teacher for teaching her about Irish heritage in the first place.  
On with the show! Don't forget: reviews make my day and up your awesome points._

* * *

**_ Between Here & There_**

"Can I ask you a question?"

Dean doesn't glance away from the road that stretches out like a river of asphalt before us, nor does he supply me with a response. It's only been a week since we ganked that revenant and became an official hunting duo (of extraordinary awesomeness), but he's already more than aware that this means I'm probably about to delve into his history in a casual attempt to decipher reality from lore. So he stopped replying to this which, more or less, signals that I'm free to ask whatever the hell I want to ask. Whether or not he answers my real question is entirely up to him. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't, which is when he pretends like he never even heard me at all. Once or twice I've gotten a "that's none of your business" in a sullen growl as he forever closes the door on the subject.

I only get that reaction when the subject is Sam. I don't know why, but he won't talk about his younger brother. Not even to fondly reminisce. I like to think he'll tell me all about it when he's ready, but the way his brows crumple and his jaw clenches when I do bring it up, I can't be sure he'll ever talk about it.

"What's with the cassette player?" I lay out a not too personal question. "You know these things went obsolete before I was even born, right?"

Dean cocks a brow at me and I can't tell if he's offended by my criticism of his choice in music format or casually surprised that my question didn't pertain to one of the zillion stories I've heard about him.

"You're not knocking Zeppelin, are you?" he questions with an air of skepticism.

"Oh, no," I vigorously shake my head. "God no. Zeppelin rules. I'm just saying Zeppelin - and all the music you've got here - sounds better on digital media." I pause as I shuffle through his unorganized box of cassette tapes. "I don't honestly think I've ever even seen a real cassette until now."

"I like my car the way it is," he informs me defensively. "You don't mess with the classics."

For a minute I debate bringing up the fact his cassette player is probably not an original piece of the Impala. But I don't, partially because I enjoy a Dean whose not pissed off at me (and I really don't know enough about cars or cassettes to be arguing about it), but also because my thoughts are interrupted by an incoming call from my favorite ex-hunter/werewolf.

"Garth," I answer my phone with gusto as I turn down the volume on Stairway to Heaven. "What's up man?"

"Got a case for ya," he skips the formalities and casual banter, getting straight to business. "Where you at?"

"Nebraska, I think," I reply, staring out the window at the endless stretch of plain lands around us. "With Dean."

"Winchester?" Garth questions. "That's... interesting." He pauses and, even though I can't see his face, I can tell he finds my proud statement to be curious and somewhat thought provoking. "Anyway, I found somethin' kind of weird up in Devil's Lake, North Dakota. Get a pen 'cause you're gonna want to write this down."

I find a blue pen in my jean's pocket and take notes on my left palm as Garth spills the details on this strange-even-for-us case.

"Wow," I say once I've gotten all the details. "That is weird."

"Let me know what you find," Garth tells me, craving details on the hunt we have yet to embark on. "And good luck."

As I thank him and end the call, I can't help but feel he's not wishing me luck on the case but with my new hunting partner. Probably because Dean's not the warmest guy. I've already figured that one out. No way is that stopping me from taking this opportunity.

"Riddle me this," I speak as I read over the scribbled notes drawn over the calloused skin of my open palm. "What kidnaps first-born sons in a flash of blinding light that comes from the sky?"

Dean wrinkles his brows in thought.

"Oh, and also leaves what can best be described as 'crop circles'," I continue.

"First born... blinding light..." Dean repeats in a mutter. "That sounds familiar."

"Good," I say. "Because I'm personally stumped." I pause. "You don't think it's aliens, do you?"

It's a rhetorical, completely non-serious question that actually sparks Dean's whiskey soaked memory.

"Damn it," he thunders, punching his steering wheel as the realization settles. "Fuckin' fairies."

"What?" I have to ask, nearly choking on my own saliva at Dean's reaction. "Did you - did you just say fairies?"

"Yeah," Dean grumbles unenthusiastically. "Probably brought in by a leprechaun."

"Lep... _leprechaun_?" I stammer, not sure if Dean is being sincere or pulling my leg. The sullen, serious look on his face tells me he's far from joking. Not to mention this is Dean Winchester I'm talking to. The day Dean Winchester plays a prank on me is the day fish sprout wings and birds take to a life aquatic.

"Yes," Dean confirms, his eye still fixed on the road, his expression full of grave sincerity. "They're pretty much the demons of the fairy realm."

"Demons of the fairy realm," I echo with a breath of disbelief.

Is this real life? Am I seriously sitting in a '67 Impala next to Dean Winchester discussing freaking leprechauns and fairies? Or is this is a really long, extremely vivid dream?

"I thought fairies were like Big Foot or Santa Clause," I admit. "You know. Not real. And you're telling me there's an entire realm of these things?"

"Unfortunately," Dean grumbles.

"And they're in this, uh, 'realm' because...?"

"Leprechauns are kind of like crossroads demons," Dean explains. "They don't usually bother with this side of reality unless some one calls them."

"I guess that makes sense," I say though, truth be told, nothing about this conversation screams logical. Then again, I guess the same thing could be said about our job.

At least Dean seems to know all about the little bastards. That'll save me at least a half a day's worth of research.

xXxXxXx

_**Devil's Lake, North** **Dakota**_

When we reach our destination, I suit up. Which is, quite suddenly, wrong.

"You want to play FBI in a case that looks like aliens?" Dean spells out what I'm trying to do with an "_are you serious?_" tone.

"... yes?" I reply, suddenly feeing quite embarrassed.

"No," Dean shakes his head. "We work the reporter angle on this one."

This signals Dean's done testing me, and he's done following my suit. We're now doing things his way. He _is_ the expert, so I'll play along, although he could have found a nicer way to tell me this. A way that didn't make me feel quite so stupid.

Before we go play journalists or bloggers or what the hell ever Dean comes up with, he fills me in on what we're dealing with. As it turns out, leprechauns aren't actually tiny little men at all. In fact, there's virtually no indication that they are what they are. Not based on what the popular, modern depictions and cereal boxes would have you believe. And they don't usually travel alone, bringing along some other form of fairy along for the ride. The bad news about the additional fairy crew is that no one can see them. No one, that is, except those who have actually been to the realm of the fairies. Luckily for us, Dean is one of these people (but - surprise! - he doesn't want to talk about it).

Essentially, what we're looking for is a leprechaun who doesn't look like what I've been lead to believe leprechauns look like and may actually be invisible, as well as signs of a frequent fairy visitor, indicated by bowls of cream in places you wouldn't normally see a bowl of cream. For instance, anywhere (seriously though, who just leaves out a bowl of cream? I don't even know cat owners who do that).

"We also have to track down whoever brought the damn thing here," Dean informs me. "We can track the bastard down but it won't do us much good until we find the right spell to reverse."

I'll spare you the boring details of interviewing cooperative civilians - who are all convinced aliens are behind the abductions - and the local law force - who are more skeptical than the citizens of Devil's Lake, but equally as concerned and thoroughly annoyed by the amount of "paranormal investigators" the strange incidents have attracted. The parents of the missing - five in total so far - are willing to cooperate with out "interview", but only when we told them we were paranormal debunkers and promised our article would urge people to give up the extra terrestrial nonsense and help the desperate parents find their kids. The parents of the first missing kid even offered a five figure reward for the return of their oldest son, and they looked like they could afford it.

"Somethin' seem off about that first couple we interviewed?" Dean asks me when we take a trip to the local library to dig through back issues of every local paper published in the last three months.

I hadn't really thought about it at the time, but now that Dean mentions it, I suppose their concern seemed somewhat lacking. Like the reward they offered was a front to disguise the fact they knew exactly where their son had gone, because they had sent him there.

"Hey, Dean," this prompts a curious question to pop into my head. I've been so consumed by tracking a damn leprechaun before it can take anyone else, I never stopped to think about the people he's already taken. "Is there a way to get those people back? From the fairy realm?"

"I don't think so," Dean shakes his head, barely taking his eye off the stack of newspapers in front of him.

"What happens to them over there?" I press, but Dean won't answer this question.

"Yahtzee," he says instead, holding up the front page from a paper printed nearly two and a half months ago. "You recognize any of these people?"

I take the paper from his hands to study. The large, colorful photograph displays a grinning couple holding one of those novelty, oversized checks with an obscene amount of zeros behind a lonely five. Bold black letters pronounce the lucky couple the sole winners of the largest jackpot in the history of North Dakota's lottery. Incidentally, the proud, sudden millionaires are the parents of the first missing kid.

"How about them?" Dean slides me another newspaper, whose headline declares the owners of local bee keepers and honey makers - aka, mom and dad to missing kid number two - winners in a landmark lawsuit against a major corporation famous for genetically modifying food and funding several political campaigns. This particular paper was printed only three days after their friends took home a pot of gold.

"Or her?" Dean slides me yet another paper, printed only days after the landmark lawsuit. On this paper, the headline excitedly announces a local bakery had been declared number one in the United States by Good Morning America. The woman who proudly smiles in this picture is, not surprisingly, the mother of missing kid number three.

"Check this out," I line up the papers on the long table, pointing to a small object that reoccurs in all three photographs. "The pendant on lotto mommy's neck, it's the same symbol as bee keeper daddy's ring."

"And the bakery lady's pin," Dean sees the pattern, studying the Celtic symbol with great interest.

"How much you wanna bet that's some kind of lucky charm?" I say.

"I'd be willing to put up a jack pot, a bee farm and a bakery those are lucky charms," Dean agrees with the theory and I grin. "Part of the leprechaun's deal, I'm guessing."

"You know what that means?" I say, wiggling my brows and Dean's face falls slightly.

"Please don't say it," he half begs, half moans.

"We gotta go after his lucky charms."

"Ugh," Dean groans at my terrible pun.


	5. Unlucky Charms, Part II

_** Still Devil's Lake, North Dakota**_

Dean parks his Impala outside the McMansion where the lucky jack pot winners reside and kills the engine.

"You remember the plan?" he quizzes me for the third time since it was formulated.

"Yes," I groan, trying to keep as much annoyance out of my tone as possible, muttering under my breath, "it's not exactly a complicated one."

"Good," Dean says as he passes me a ziplock sandwich baggie containing a handful's worth of table salt. "Keep this handy," he firmly instructs. "You so much as see the guy, spill this so that..."

"He gets too distracted to attack me," I finish from memory. "Yeah, I got it."

"... and his skin burns at the touch of..."

"Iron and silver," I finish with an eye roll. "I'm packing silver bullets."

"Hey!" Dean snaps sternly as his brows collapse into an angered frown. "Am I boring you? Is me teaching you how to stay alive in this situation uninteresting to you?"

"... no." I hang my head shamefully.

"Take this," he says, holding out a short but wide silver blade.

"What are you taking?" I question as I accept the weapon, which I carefully tuck away in the inner left hand pocket of my green jacket.

With his right arm, Dean reaches for an object laying on the back seat. When he brings it into view, I see that it's an iron fireplace shovel.

"In case of fairies," he informs me.

I can't believe that's a real life sentence.

"If these assholes started this whole thing and they've got the spell book, I guarantee fairies will be hanging around."

Yeah, I know. You already told me. Three friggin' times.

He doesn't smell too much like whiskey, he can't be that drunk.

Dean casually unscrews the lid of his flask, takes a quick drink, and returns it to his pocket before giving me a silent "let's do this" nod.

I do as I'm told, gradually sauntering up the front walk as Dean silently snakes into the shadows and around to the back. I ring the doorbell and patiently await someone to answer.

While I wait, I wonder what exactly crawled up Dean's ass. Then I think about my first encounter with him. And then I think about Garth's "good luck" comment. And I realize that maybe this is actually what he's normally like.

The door swings open to reveal mama McMansion - aka Julie Crandall - the thin, middle aged woman with short, bob-style brunette hair and one missing son. The way her hazel eyes look at me, I know she recognizes me, and she produces a small, friendly smile.

"Hi, Mrs. Crandall," I politely greet her with a forced smile, my dark eyes falling to the Celtic style pendant that dangles from a long gold chain around her neck. "Sorry to bother you again."

"That's okay," she assures me with a kind but remorseful smile as she pulled her lose fitting sweater to a close in defense against the night chill. "Chuck, right? Palahniuk?"

"Yeah," I confirm my reporter alias, offering her an encouraging smile.

"Where's the other guy?" she asked curiously as she points to her left eye. "The one with the patch?"

"Steve," I refresh her memory of Dean's fake name. "He's, uh, he's actually why I'm here. I apologize, this is a little off topic and I don't ordinarily do things like this, but your necklace. It's Celtic, am I right?"

"Yes," Julie nods, her fingers absently stroking the object as I speak.

"His mom had one just like that," I tell her, pointing to the pendant in her grasp. "He hasn't been able to shut up about it since we left here the other day and I just have to know where you got it. You see, she passed not too long ago and his birthday is coming up. I thought it would be a nice gift."

"It would," she nodded, buying every word of my simple yet elaborate story. "I'm... um, I'm afraid I'm not... sure... where this came from, though. It was a gift. From... the Scott's."

Julie Crandall sucks at lying.

"That's too bad," I shake my head with false disappointment. From the corner of my eye I spy Dean round the side of the house. "You wouldn't happen to know if a local jeweler might have made it?"

"I don't think it's local," she tells me. Now that I believe.

"Thanks anyway," I tell her. "Again, sorry to bother you. Good luck finding your son."

"Mmhmm, thanks," she absently tells me before gently closing the door.

"Well?" Dean asks when we reconvene in the Impala.

"She said she got it from the Scott's," I reveal.

"The bee keepers?" Dean says, scratching his stubble-kissed chin with a thoughtful expression. "She might have. I didn't see any cream or fairies when I went around. I don't think they have the book."

We repeat the "plan" at the Scott's home ("where'd you get that great Celtic ring? 'Steve' has been going off about it, who sells them?") and obtain similar results (nervous stammering and eye shifting before giving up the great baker, Kira Stanton, as their supplier).

"You wanna switch places?" I offer when we get to the lonely divorcé's home, inserting a brief brow wiggle. "I hear she makes a mean pie."

"This is business, not a booty call," Dean insists with a slight frown. "Besides, you can't see fairies."

So I, again, take the front door while Dean slips into the shadows and works his way around the house. This time I'm invited inside where the middle aged woman with shoulder length bleach-blond hair insists I try a slice of fresh-from-the-oven pecan pie.

"I'll brew some coffee," she tells me and, for a minute, I feel kind of bad for her and her clear loneliness. But only until I remember she's the one who traded her only kid for good press.

"That's okay," I vaguely try to halt her hospitality. "I'm not going to be here long..."

Either her hearing is the most selective I've ever encountered or she's so desperate for company she completely ignores me. She dishes up a generous slice of still warm pie and places it on the white marble counter top before me as she motions for me to take a seat at the bar stool.

Out of politeness - or maybe it's pity, I can't tell - I take a seat.

"Go ahead," she urges me. "Try it."

She watches me with earnest, puppy dog eyes that I, oddly, can't resist. So, I take a small bite.

"Wow," I speak, partially to satisfy her, but also because of the flavor explosion that dances on my taste buds. "That's... that's damn good."

"Why thank you, honey," she says with a smile as she turns her back to brew up that pot of coffee she promised me. I happily continue eating, unsure if I want to greedily shovel the whole thing in or slowly savor each little bite.

"So, Ms. Stanton -" I begin with a mouthful of baked goods.

"Please, call me Kira," she insists.

"- Kira," I correct myself. "I actually came by to ask you about that pin you were wearing the other day. Looks kind of like a Celtic knot?"

Kira pauses long enough to keep my suspicions alive.

"Yeah?" she collects herself. "What about it?"

"I was just curious where you got it is all," I continue between bites. "My, uh, associate, Steve, seemed kind of captivated by it. His mom had one just like it, and I was just wondering..." I trail off momentarily when I notice the teal colored bowl set out on the center of the long, chestnut dining room table. It's filled with cream. "... where you might have picked it up...?"

I take another slow bite of pie as I peer out the French doors beyond the table and into the backyard. It takes everything I've got not to cry out in surprise when I see Dean swinging madly at seemingly nothing with his iron shovel. My jaw drops and I nearly loose a mouthful of pie as he is knocked backwards and off his feet by an invisible force.

I'm suddenly not entirely sure what I should do. I got so distracted by the pie, I can't decide if I should grab my gun and help the one-eyed hunter or if, since Dean seems to be distracting the fairies, I should help Kira get rid of them.

"It's an heirloom," Kira tells me, the best delivered lie I've heard all night.

"Listen, Kira," I begin after I've finally managed to choke down the bite I almost spit up. "I know about the leprechaun."

"What?!" Kira almost yells in shock. She's really good at playing dumb.

"The deal you made with the leprechaun," I press. "Fame and fortune in exchange for your first born? Or, rather, a lucky charm in exchange for your first born."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Kira insists with a huff.

"So that's not my partner outside swinging iron at little winged people?" I ask, motioning to the backyard. Kira and I both glance back out the French doors in time to witness Dean madly wheeling his shovel around.

"Die, you fucking fairy freaks!" he growls loudly as he forcefully swings his weapon around. It takes a lot for me to start just cracking up on the spot. I mean, seriously. How is this not funny?

Kira cocks a brow at this before glancing back at me.

"He's got them distracted for now," I go on. "I don't think we can bring your son back, but we can stop them from abducting anyone else's. What I need you to do is calmly get whatever book the spell came from and reverse the spell and send that bastard packing to whatever realm he came from."

"Now, why on earth would I do that?" Kira questions, tilting her head to the side. "I kind of like it over here."

_Son of a bitch._

"You..." I sputter, my eyes growing wide as I slowly begin to edge myself away. "... you?"

"I know, not what you were expecting," Kira says with a small grin as she gently strokes her hair. "I'm naturally a brunette, but over here I can be anything. Blond, redhead. Christ, I can even get away with blue hair over here. Blue. At my age, too."

This surprise reveal has me seized in a temporary moment of panic. Dean told me what to do three, maybe four times. And I can't remember. I rolled my eyes at him and now I can't remember.

"H-how?" I stammer a question in effort to buy myself more time to remember. "Why?"

"The Crandall's called me over to help them with their financial woes," Kira tells me as she begins to pace with a satisfied smile on her lips. "And once the Crandall's got their good luck charm and took home the jack pot - or, pot of gold, as it were - the Scott's wanted one of their own."

"What about you?" I wonder. "Why help yourself?"

"Why **not** help myself?" she answers my question with another question. "You think I want to go back? You know what it's like over there? In my realm? A never-ending saga of Medieval drama and filth. They don't even have a freaking _telegraph_ system but you guys. Oh man, you guys have it made over here."

"You son, Johnny," I begin to speculate.

"Totally fake," she easily admits. "Never existed."

"And the Crandall's son...?"

"They knew there was a price," Kira tells me, folding her arms crossly. "No one gets rich quick without paying for it, not even over here with your stupid little demons. Don't forget, they're the ones who called. I'm just the lucky leprechaun who answered."

"Where'd they even get the book?" I can't help but wonder.

"A flea-market of all places," Kira tells me with an amused tone. "Don't bother going back there for it. I've got it now. Couldn't have them welching on their deal. Like I said, I kind of like it over here."

"You don't belong here," I growl at her and she rolls her eyes.

"Come on, now," she says. "Can't we do this like civilized, well, beings?"

"What do you mean?" I ask as my fingers gradually go for the gun I've packed in my right jacket pocket, partially out of instinct, but also in case this conversation takes that sudden turn in the wrong direction that I've grown accustom to.

"The whole 'I'm a hunter and I must take you out because it's my job' schtick," she waves her hands. "It's so passé. And unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" I echo. "You're taking innocent kids and you think this is unnecessary?"

"True," she admits with a small nod and a thoughtful expression. "We could duke it out because I'm just doing my job and you feel the need to do yours. Or." She gives a dramatic pause as she looks me over. "Or we could make a deal."

"Please," I roll my eyes. "That's Hunting 101. Never make a deal."

"But it's not souls I'm after," Kira puts on a sweet voice as she pouts. "What I'd take from you is something you'd never miss."

I have a hard time believing that.

"Come on, 'Chuck'," she says, air quoting the name she knows is false. "Isn't there something you've always wanted? A girlfriend maybe? Or a daddy?"

I try not to let her last guess get to me as my fingers make contact with the weapon in my pocket.

"You know what I'd like?" I ask her as I take a firm hold of my pistol. "I'd like for you to eat led."

By the time I've managed to withdraw my firearm, she's disappeared. Rather, she's gone invisible.

"Come now," her voice laughs from somewhere within the kitchen. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

I make an educated guess on her location based on where her voice comes from and squeeze off a single shot. This attempt throws her into a fit of laughter that seemingly comes from everywhere. I curse myself for forgetting what it was Dean told me to do. Iron burns, silver burns worse, but what stops them long enough...

Salt!

I reach into my pocket just as a set of invisible hands close themselves around my throat and shove me into a wall. The gun falls from my grasp, but I maintain focus on fishing out the sandwich baggie stuffed somewhere in my jean's pocket.

"Do me a favor," I choke as my fingertips discover the plastic edges. "And count this!"

With gusto, I bring forth the bag. To my horror and the lady leprechaun's delight, the baggie is completely empty.

"One!" she laughs, clearly tickled by my stroke of ill-luck. "One torn, sad little bag."

Her fingers tighten, cutting off my precious supply of oxygen. This only drives me to try again as I reach back into my pocket.

"... this..." I gasp as my face turns red or blue or some shade it shouldn't be. Kira becomes visible once more as I throw a handful of salt on the ground beneath me, a look of disgust and horror crossing her face.

"No!" she cries in a fit of anger as she's forced to release me from her death grip.

I cough as she drops with a heavy thud to the floor and sullenly begins the tedious task of counting the grains. That should keep her busy for a while, but it would be nice to secure enough time to find the spell book and send her back to the miserable realm she crawled out of. So I rummage through her cupboards and, to my luck, I find a large, unopened bag of pure, granulated sugar.

"When you're done with that," I tell her, cutting a hole in the bottom with the silver knife Dean had given me. "Why don't you count this for me."

She watches with horror as I spill five pounds worth of sugar crystals onto the floor in front of her and toss the bag aside.

"You know, it's funny," I muse as I watch her grumble over her chore. "Here you are, this all-powerful being from another realm, and all it takes to stop you is a pile of freaking sugar. I gotta say, as some one who hacks heads off vamps and lights windegos on fire, I'm not super impressed with you fairy folk."

I don't stick around to hear her response, if there is one. Instead I head out back to see how Dean's fairing in his battle. By the time I've stepped into the well manicured lawn, Dean is wildly hammering at the ground in one spot.

"Die, fairy fucks!" he's yelling as his shovel strikes the ground. "Argh!"

"I found the leprechaun," I say when I'm sure Dean's successfully crushed to death the last of the pesky fairies.

"Good," Dean pants, clearly out of breath. "Where is he?"

"She's inside," I motion. "Counting a handful of salt before she can get to the five pounds of sugar I dropped."

"She?" Dean echoes.

"Yeah," I confirm with a simple head nod. "It's Kira, actually."

"Huh," Dean breaths, somewhat surprised but, considering the things he's seen, far from entirely.

"The book's inside," I continue. "I think we've got time to find it and send her packing. If not, I think I saw a box of salt in the cupboard."

"Good," Dean says again, slinging the shovel over his shoulder before striding along side me back towards the house. "I fucking hate fairies."

* * *

_I bet you weren't expecting that. I wasn't expecting it either. Isn't it weird how your brain can birth a story but even you don't know all the details until they come flying out of your fingers?_

_Stay tuned for more Adventures. You probably won't expect what happens next episode, either. _


	6. Hunted

_I would like to apologize in advance to the good people of Florida for Ben's opinions (which do not necessarily reflect my own) of your fine state. He's just in a bad mood right now (you'll find out why in a minute). However, whilst typing the beginning of this chapter, it did kind of make me realize how often I take my own state for granted. Sure we get snow - which seems infinite at times - but the wildlife in my neck of the woods doesn't want to eat me (including the bears). You guys do know how to grow an orange, though._  
_Anyway..._  
_Oh, right. There's lots of swears (primarily f-bombs) in this chapter (I told you, Ben's not in a good mood) so if you're particularly sensitive to such language, now would be a swell time to turn on that profanity filter._

* * *

**_Titusville, Florida_**

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now this very minute. Riding in the Impala with Dean? Cold. Guess again. Sunbathing at the beach with Dean? A lot colder. One more guess. Eating a bucket of fried shrimp with Dean while we explore a hiking trail through the swamp lands where, at any minute, an alligator could jump up and bite my ankles or a massive mother fucking python could slither down from a tree and swallow me whole.

That was actually the worst guess yet, but it reminded me why Michigan is my preferred peninsula, as far as peninsula states go.

Anyway, I'm not currently with Dean. He's on a food and booze run. Me, I'm sitting in a dark motel room. Oh, and I'm tied to a fucking chair.

The only reason we're in this smelly, muggy, reptile and serpent infested state is because Dean thought it was necessary to track down the guy who sold the Crandall's their Celtic/Fairy spell book and make sure there weren't any others like it. Yes, you heard me. Dean Winchester drove us all the way from North Dakota to fucking Florida on a search and destroy all spell books mission.

Half the way there I begged him to let me call it into Garth and have one of the newer hunters do it. Or one of the fresh from the loony bin and ready to hunt again but not really quite ready yet hunters. Even Garth would take this non-case, since it doesn't conflict with his whole being a werewolf thing.

But noooo. Dean said it was our job. Our boring ass, flea-market browsing, book burning job. And now I'm tied to a fucking chair.

I'm a little sore about the whole thing, if you couldn't tell. I generally can't stand an hours worth of shopping let alone three whole days of it. Also, _I'M TIED TO A FUCKING CHAIR_.

The worst part about this, in my opinion, is the thing that got the jump on me is some lanky ass looking, dark haired kid who looks to be somewhere between three and five years younger than me. He sits silently on the edge of one of the queen sized beds, calmly twirling a long dagger whose blade shimmers in the small amount of light that peeks in from the parking lot.

"Will you at least tell me what you are?" I ask him while I quietly fight against my restraints. "If you're going to kill me, I think I deserve to know what's about to do me in."

"I'm not going to kill you," the kid responds sincerely. "Once I have accomplished what I came here for, I assure you I will leave you unharmed." Pause. "Bearing in mind you can't hold me accountable for any rope burns you may give yourself if you keep struggling like that."

"So you're what again?" I ask, temporarily abandoning operation: free and flee. "And you've tied me up why?"

"I'm a kitsune," he tells me.

"A what?"

"Kitsune," he repeats.

"I've never heard of that," I admit, briefly wondering if he's made it up.

"There aren't many of us," he acknowledges. "And I've tied you to the chair so you don't get in my way."

"In your way?" I echo as a question. It hits me as the words leave my lips. "You're here for Dean, aren't you?"

He doesn't reply, not with words. His silence serves as his response. He hangs his head and I could swear he almost seems remorseful about it.

"I've never killed anyone before," he tells me quietly with a slight quiver in his voice. The way he tells me this, I know he's telling me the truth. Which is actually kind of confusing.

"Pardon my ignorance," I begin. "But what kind of monster doesn't kill?"

Even in the dark I can see the disgusted, angry frown that creases his brows as he gives me a cold stare. I've clearly struck a nerve.

"You hunters are all the same," he spits defensively. "Judging us by what we are instead of who we are. I am a kitsune, not a monster. Yes, I must feed on pituitary glands to live, but they don't have to come from the living. I don't have to, nor do I ever, kill for my own survival. No, I am not the monster here. Your buddy Dean, though. He fits the definition. Your hunter pal Dean, he's the only monster in this town tonight."

The way he says _Dean_, I can tell this is personal. Like he's spent years letting the hate build up inside of him while he plotted his vengeance.

"Listen, kid," I begin as I return to struggling against my snug bindings. "I'm sorry about your mom or your dad or your sister or whoever Dean killed. But we don't go out looking for things to kill for shits and giggles. We follow a trail made of corpses, which means mommy was a monster and had to be put down."

A hot rage flashes in his eyes and, for a minute, he thinks about going back on his promise not to kill me. That is, until I'm saved by the bell. The bell in this scenario being the roaring engine of Dean's Impala pulling into the parking lot.

"I'm really sorry about this," the kid apologizes as he swiftly wanders towards me and stuffs a clean hand towel in my mouth. "You just happened to be at the wrong place at the right time."

"Hurmm mur hmm mhmm," I try to speak through my gag while the kid hides in the shadow behind the door.

I've never been gagged before. I gotta say, it's not what I was expecting based on what I've seen on TV or in movies. I used to watch scenes like this and wonder why the guy tied to a chair or a bed or whatever didn't just spit the gag out. I now know it's because there's too much material tucked too far back to be able to repel from your mouth. It's so far back, I almost gag.

For an obnoxiously long minute the room falls into an eerie silence as the two of us wait for Dean to join the fun. My heart begins to thump just a little faster and harder as I hear the sound of his keys jingle before the door unlocks. I make as much noise as I can to warn the older hunter not to come in, but all I can manage are muffled gurgling sounds.

Dean steps into the room holding a brown paper bag in his left arm and a six-pack in his right. He glances around the dark room and finally sees me when he glances to his left. The look on his face when he discovers my predicament is less confused or even surprised. It's more of a _'well, shit'_ expression. He doesn't even seem surprised when the door suddenly slams behind him and the kid steps out of the shadows with his blade pointed at the hunter.

"Dean Winchester," the kid says, holding his blade menacingly out in front of him. "I've been waiting for this day for a very long time. Hands where I can see 'em."

Dean sighs but does as Knife Boy instructs, placing his bag and six pack on the closest bed before raising both of his hands.

"I told you this day would come," the kid goes on and Dean actually rolls his eye.

"I'm sure you did," he says with an unenthusiastic, borderline bored tone. "Who are you again?"

The young stranger lets out a short, angry snort and I'm sure his cheeks are flushed in rage. As if this kid didn't hate Dean enough already. Nothing takes the wind out of your revenge sails like the guy you're about to pay back not having a clue who you are.

"Jacob," the kid responds, his weapon still up in the air in front of him. "Jacob Pond."

Dean gives Jacob a small shrug, indicating his memory has yet to be jogged.

"Amy Pond was my mother," Jacob tries again, the wrath in his tone rising.

The name clearly sparks something in Dean's head, but his expression tells us he's not sure why or from where.

"The kitsune your brother let live?"

Recognition strikes Dean at this reminder, something that seems to satisfy Jacob.

"Oh, yeah," Dean nods as the memory resurfaces in his mind. "You did tell me you'd kill me, didn't you? Good for you on finding me. That couldn't have been easy."

"Shut up!" Jacob yells, clearly irritated by Dean's seeming lack of concern that there's a vengeful monster waving a knife in his face. For a minute no one says anything as the kitsune glares down the hunter who looks like he just wants this to be over so he can get on with his night. I keep fighting the ropes that hold me in place.

"Why?" Jacob asks at long last. "Why couldn't you just let us go? Your brother, Sam. He let us go. Why couldn't you?"

"Look," Dean rolls his head. "In retrospect, maybe my brother was right to let her just walk. Maybe. But your mom did kill people."

"For me!" Jacob yelled, fighting back the tears that fill his eyes. "She killed three assholes to save her son!"

"Maybe they were assholes," Dean shrugs. "Maybe they weren't. Your mom killed them, I killed her. End of story."

"No," Jacob speaks through clenched teeth, shaking his head as he fearlessly walks closer to Dean. "Not end of story. This story ends when I've avenged my mom's death. The same way you ended her." He pauses to let Dean eye the blade that's meant to take his life. "With knife in your heart."

Insert an epic and dramatic silence as the two stare each other down. Jacob, he's caught between nervousness for taking a life and utter joy that he's finally about to get the vengeance that's fueled his very existence for the past... well, I don't know how long exactly. At least ten years, since Sam was alive for the beginning of this tale.

Dean's expression is harder to read. His face remains stern, solid. Almost emotionless. His eye, however, keeps a subtle spark of guilt. Emptiness. As if he hopes Jacob follows through with his threat because he thinks he deserves to die, but not just for what he did to the kid's mom all those years ago. For all sorts of crap that's built up inside of him.

Oh my god. Is this what happens to hunters? Is this what's going to happen to me?

Wait, don't think about that right now. Get the hell out of this chair and stab the little freak with... shit, I don't have a weapon. I'll bludgeon him then. Or, at least, knock him unconscious.

"Any last words, Dean Winchester?" Jacob says, his voice hovering just above a whisper.

"Nope," Dean says, his eye never leaving Jacob's.

The seconds that follow pass by at an excruciatingly slow rate. Jacob draws his knife back, just above his head to gain enough inertia to drive the blade through Dean's chest. Dean, he watches this. Just watches. His eye on the blade glistening in the neon light from the motel parking lot, glad to see it descend.

"Mruhmmmmmm!" I try to yell through my gag, a sound that catches Dean's attention. He looks at me, blinks, then returns his focus to the descending knife.

Just as Jacob's knife is about to penetrate the soft leather of his jacket, Dean takes a firm grip of the kid's wrist. In the blink of an eye, the weapon transfers hands and Dean sinks the sharp blade into Jacob's own heart.

The kid's mouth gapes open as he blinks furiously in surprise.

"No..." he whispers before he staggers backwards and falls to the brown shag carpeted floor and exhales his last breath.

Dean gives Jacob a quick but through glance to make sure he's not getting back up. Then he glances up at me and says;

"You hungry?"

"Hrmm muhmmm," I grumble, my brows folded in anger.

"Oh, right," he says, swiftly stepping towards me.

"What the fuck!?" I yell at him the instant he's pulled the towel out of my mouth. I watch him through angry eyes as his own hunting knife begins slicing my bonds.

"What?" Dean asks, confused by my hostile tone. "You like deep fried sea food, right?"

"Dude," I motion to Jacob, the guy who's been dead for all of ten seconds. "We've got a dead kid laying in the middle of the floor!"

"No," Dean shakes his head as he rises to his feet. "We've got a dead kitsune on the floor."

"Whatever," I say, rubbing my wrists. "Did you know he was coming?"

"More or less," Dean replies vaguely with a casual shrug. "Help me wrap him up in one of these sheets. It's too early to carry a corpse through the parking lot. We'll stash him in the tub for now."

"What does 'more or less' mean?" I question, my tone still irritated.

"It means 'more or less'," Dean returns, stripping the white sheets from the bed not currently occupied with hot food and cold beer. He carefully drapes it over Jacob's body before bothering to flick a light on.

"I don't know what that means," I say with an annoyed tone as I bend down to assist Dean in the dirty work of wrapping a dead body in a sheet.

"I mean," he begins as we move the body to the bathroom. "I didn't know what would come or when, but I knew something would eventually come at some point."

"What?" I shake my head as I help Dean place the wrapped up kitsune in the bath tub. "Is there another hit list out there with your name on it? You got anything else coming after you?"

"Probably," Dean shrugs like it's nothing. He pauses to wash his hands before he makes his way back to the food. "You hungry yet?"

"Like what?" I ask with a voice laced with frustration.

"I don't know," he says with a deep sigh, extracting the flask from his pocket. He takes a long, hard swig as he scavenges his alcohol soaked mind for the answer. "Demons. Angels. Maybe some vamps. Probably some ghosts if we ever end up in their vicinity. Shifters, gods, ghouls. Witches. I don't know. I've spent a lot of time pissing a lot of things off. It's hard to say who's hit list I've made."

"And you casually failed to mention this to me?" I fume.

"It's part of the job," he tells me flatly yet sternly. He pauses to take a drink from his flask. "At first," he goes on, pocketing the flask as he speaks, "you think you're gonna die bloody on your feet. No matter what, it's gonna be bloody, but after a while your chances of dying sitting down go up. You think you're just saving people? Making all the bad nightmares go away? Well, you're making enemies, too, and it's just a matter of time before one of them catches up with you."

Of course I'm making enemies. Only, it's one of those things that you know, but you don't really _know_. Like when you know that it's a bad idea to keep drinking all night, but you don't really _know_ it either, because you're in the moment and that moment is awesome and screw what happens in the morning.

I let this realization digest as I quietly watch Dean extract white to-go boxes from the brown paper bag, along with plastic forks and two paper plates. He carries this all to the small, round table and, with his back turned, asks "You want cocktail sauce or tartar sauce?" as he begins plating our meal.

"Both," I absently reply as a new question surfaces. "Hey, Dean. Can I ask you a question?"

"You like crab cakes, right?"

"When Jacob was about to stab you," I begin softly. "It, uh, it kind of looked like you were going to let him. You weren't... you weren't really going to let him kill you, right?"

Pause.

"Hush puppy?"

* * *

_So, yes, Sam is dead in this story (in case anyone was wondering, since I never made that specifically clear until now). And I kind of feel bad about it, but I don't at the same time for two reasons. One, I'm fairly confident that, by the end of the series, the Winchester who survives will not be Sam (I have my reasons - shoot me a PM if you'd like to discuss them). Reason number two is season nine Sam is really starting to piss me off. Not that that's a good excuse to kill off a character, but I guess it makes it easier for me to write this without feeling too remorseful about it._  
_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this enough to leave a review. *insert compelling puppy eyes*_


	7. Hellhound On My Trail

_**Between Here & There**_

"Check this out. Texas resident, Peggy Hill, survives fall from airplane after parachute malfunction."

I look up from my laptop and across the table at Dean who idly chews his cheeseburger. He squints at the almost obnoxious amount of midday sunlight that floods the crowded diner, taking a sip of his coffee to rinse down the red meat before responding.

"Sounds more like a miracle than a monster," he points out.

"Fair enough," I admit, returning to my computer in an effort to dig up a fresh case. "Okay, how about this. Archeologists unearth a fossil that dates back hundreds of thousands of years."

"That seems news worthy," Dean mutters sarcastically, rolling his eye before taking another bite of his lunch.

"Wait, there's more!" I speak with an enthusiastic tone, mimicking an infomercial spokesman. "This fossil is of a watch that would have been manufactured by a Swiss company ten, maybe twenty years ago."

"Intriguing," Dean grants me that much. "Except the last time I checked, I'm Dean Winchester, not Doctor Who. Anyway, I'm on a time travel diet."

"What does that even mean?" I can't help but wonder.

"You get knocked into the 1940's by Cronos and then tell me time travel is fun or worth getting involved with," Dean replies as he casually glances over his shoulder before extracting his flask. "Then again, you'd need a time machine for that since Cronos is dead."

I watch as he adds an Irish flare to his coffee before returning his flask to its proper pocket.

"Really?" I ask without thought. "It's barely noon, dude."

"Yeah," Dean nods, taking a slow sip of the steaming hot beverage. "But it's Ireland somewhere."

I let out a small sigh and pretend to ignore this, focusing once more on the web pages my search engine brings to my attention.

"Here's one," I say, my eyes excitedly scanning an article from a Nevada newspaper. "This guy, Alex Trudeau, was legally dead for ten minuets. He comes to without being resuscitated, screaming his head off before he starts babbling about Hell."

"I'm listening," Dean urges me to continue with a look of mild interest in his eye.

"Said he spent weeks in the pit," I go on and Dean nods.

"Sounds like Hell time," he agrees I might be on to something. "The article say anything else?"

"Yeah, actually," I nod. "He insisted on salting the doorway and windows in his room, saying demons would be looking for him to drag him back down." I pause to look up at Dean. "Seems like something worth checking into."

"Does it say how he died in the first place?" Dean asks, intrigued but skeptical.

"Head trauma," I respond. "Caused by a car accident."

"I donno," Dean scratches his stubble kissed chin in thought. "Dude might just be crazy."

"Maybe," I slowly admit. "But it wasn't a Hell hound that killed him, which means this probably isn't a contract collection. And he did accurately recount what Hell time is like."

Dean sits back in his booth, giving my points some consideration as he sips his coffee.

"Where'd this happen?" he asks after a moment or two of silence.

"Las Vegas," I reply, which causes Dean to frown.

"That's two days from here," he states unenthusiastically.

"Yeah," I acknowledge this small detail. "But this guy might have demons on his ass. Isn't it kind of our job to help him out?"

"Fine," Dean grumbles before downing the rest of his coffee in one long, giant gulp. "Better make some tracks then."

xXxXxXx

_**Las Vegas, Nevada**_

When we reach Sin City, Dean and I go CDC to infiltrate Alex Trudeau's medical records.

"Why is the CDC interested in this?" Trudeau's doctor - a trim, younger redheaded woman - questions as we flip through a thin manila folder.

"Trust me, lady," Dean responds, his eye on the few pages before him. "You don't want to know."

"As a medical professional, I think I deserve an explanation," the woman states, impatiently folding her arms across her chest. While I'm busy racking my brain for a valid excuse, Dean beats me to it with a smooth response that almost clashes with his eye patch and unshaven face. Not that the clean black suit didn't already do that.

"You ever hear of a 'zombie virus', Doctor Green?" he questions the woman who seems somewhat taken aback by his question, managing only a head shake in response. "It's a rare virus that causes reanimation in corpses. It surfaced about ten, fifteen years ago and has been mostly confined to Cambodia, but we have reason to suspect it may have traveled state side. The effects are, of course, somewhat temporary, letting the body go on for anywhere between a few hours and a few days, sometimes a few weeks. Which doesn't sound so bad, except the human brain suffers an extremely high amount of damage, usually resulting in insanity. Kind of like, oh, I don't know, screaming about Hell and thinking demons are after them. Sound familiar?"

Dr. Green gulps as Dean holds up Alex Trudeau's records.

"It's... it's not contagious, is it?" she nervously asks, glancing between the two of us.

"Only if he bites you," Dean replies. "He didn't bite you, did he?"

"N-no," the good doctor shakes her head.

"Good," Dean nods, closing the folder. "If you don't mind, we'd like to take a look at Mr. Trudeau ourselves. Make sure he's just a miracle case and not infected with this rare but serious disease. In case a quarantine is in order."

"Um," Dr. Green nervously looks between us as her cheeks begin to flush a bright shade of red. "I'd like to but... see, the thing is, he was discharged yesterday afternoon."

"What?" Dean's face falls as his brows crease into a frown. "He _what_?"

"I'm sorry," the doctor sighs. "I mean, he seemed fine. Perfectly healthy other than the whole Hell nonsense."

"You're telling us," I jump in, my expression matching Dean's. "That you discharged a patient who's mental state was clearly unsound? Zombie virus or not, that sounds like a poor judgment call on your behalf."

"I'm sorry," the doctor apologizes, her gaze falling shamefully to the floor. "He seemed fine beyond that. And I wouldn't have released him had I thought he were a danger to society."

"I need his home address," Dean presses her urgently. "You better pray he's just insane and not infected. Either way, your license ought to be reviewed."

xXxXxXx

"You were kind of harsh back there," I tell Dean when we arrive at the address Dr. Green managed to scrawl for us through teary eyes.

"Maybe," Dean shrugs, clearly giving little care either way. "It's true though. Even if this guy does have demons on his ass, you can't just get away with babbling about that kind of stuff to normal people without a serious head evaluation."

"There's not really a zombie virus, is there?" I can't help but ask as we amble up to the front door of Alex Trudeau's small, sand colored ticky-tacky home.

"There is, actually," Dean replies, knocking on the white door before loosening the navy blue tie that hangs neatly around his neck. "I don't think it's that bad though. Not sure where it is, either. Cambodia just sounded believable."

We wait at the front door for a minute before Dean knocks again.

"Mr. Trudeau!" he calls in his deep, gruff voice. "You in there, Alex? We're just checkin' up on you."

He knocks a third time, growing impatient.

"Come on, Trudeau!" he calls. "We're here to save you from demons!"

His fist rises to the door again but pauses when a distinct smell reaches his nose.

"You smell that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust while his brows fold in concern.

"It wasn't me," I say, defensively holding my hands up.

"Of course it wasn't," he rolls his eye. Now that he mentions it, it does smell kind of bad around here. Like rotten eggs.

Glancing down, something grabs Dean's attention. He bends to investigate a yellow, powdery substance by running his fingers through it.

"Shit," he mutters, quickly rising to an upright position.

"What?" I have to ask. "What is it?"

"Sulfur," he says, allowing me to momentarily study the stuff before he wipes it on the leg of his clean black slacks. I gulp.

"That's a sign of demons, right?" I hesitantly ask as Dean glances around the neighborhood.

"Yeah," he nods, squinting through the afternoon sun to make sure we're not being watched.

"This might be a bad time to mention this," I nervously begin. "But I've never actually dealt with demons before."

"It's a good thing you're with me, then," Dean replies. "You got that knife I gave you?"

I open my suit jacket to reveal the bone hilt of the special demon killing blade Dean had gifted me some months back.

"Good," he says, extracting what almost looks like a small sword composed of silver or stainless steel. "You take the front. I'll go around back."

I let out a swift but heavy exhale as I mentally prepare myself for something completely new. I crack my neck and shake my arms in an attempt to rid myself of the nerves that send messages to my brain to run. Which would be the logical thing to do here. Except I'm a hunter and hunters don't run.

_Just kick the door down_, I tell myself as my right hand firmly grasps the hilt still hidden in my jacket. _You're a hunter for god's sake_.

"I am a hunter," I tell myself.

_If there were ever a time to have your first demon encounter, it's with Dean._

"I'm hunting demons with Dean Winchester."

_This is the best possible time to prove to him you've got what it takes_.

"This is my chance to prove myself."

_And, you're Ben Freakin' Braden_.

"I'm Ben Fucking Braden."

_Quit psyching yourself up and get the hell in there!_

"Argh!"

I kick in the front door and brandish my blade as soon as I've made it across the threshold.

And then I almost vomit.

"Oh god..." I mutter, covering my nose and my mouth with my elbow as my eyes begin to water and my stomach clenches.

To a certain extent, I'm beginning to understand Dean a little more. It's one thing to decapitate a vampire, shoot a werewolf down or dig up a pile of dusty old bones. It's another thing entirely to witness the mutilated remains of what once was a human being. I'll probably be a whiskey imbibing, angst ridden hunter by the time I reach Dean's age too. Maybe not as bad, but still...

Dean finds his way to the living room from the back of the house and immediately lowers his weapon when he sees what's currently making a valiant effort to expel any remnants of food I might have in my stomach. On the otherwise bare white wall is a message painted with a hurried hand in massive, red strokes. "_I'M IN HELL_" it reads. Just beside it is a sole hand print that runs all the way down the wall to the beige, burberry carpet. Just below the message lays the body of Alex Trudeau. Rather, what's left of his body, which is ripped to shreds in a manner so brutal it would put a windego's handiwork to shame.

I really start to gag when I realize the message isn't written in paint.

"Damn it," he curses with an aggravated breath.

I'd say "I told you so", but I can't take much solace in that. Not now. Not when we're this late.

"What did that?" I gasp.

"Hell hound," Dean shakes his head and gives a vague shiver. "Poor bastard."

"Why?" I ask, despite Dean's guess is as good as mine.

"Because," an unfamiliar, gruff, and English accented voice speaks from somewhere behind. "No one escapes Hell. Not while I'm in charge."

Dean glances up as I twirl around to face the dark haired man who stands just feet behind me wearing a clean black suit and a smug smile.

"Hello boys."

* * *

_I know that was kind of evil of me to leave you hanging there, but when in Rome, as it were. This chapter started getting away from me, so I had to chop it up. The second installment will be posted as soon as possible, which may be longer than I would hope for (this third trimester thing is kicking my ass), but you never know. I did surprise the crap out of myself last week with three full chapters. Maybe I can do it again?_

_Oh, and this chapter was made possible by my awesome father, which sounds awkward until you hear about what happened to my power cord (long story short, poor depth perception + clumsy feet = destroyed power cord & pops was kind enough to gift me his so I could complete these chapters). Thanks, dad, for supporting my crippling addiction to Supernatrual and its fandom!_


	8. Drinks With The Demon

_**Las Vegas (still)**_

I've never seen a demon before but I know, without a doubt in my mind, that's exactly what I'm looking at. This dark haired, dark eyed man that stands just oven an arm's length away couldn't possibly be human. At least, the thing inside of him isn't. Not with the way he smirks at us.

A low growl escapes my throat as I adjust the grasp on my blade, something that clearly amuses the demon.

"Call your dog off, would you?" the demon casually requests.

"Put the knife down, Ben," Dean instructs me in a calm tone.

"What?!" I all but yell, my eyes darting over to Dean in time to watch him sheath his own weapon.

"I said, put the knife down," he repeats with a stern look in his eye.

Instinct tells me no fucking way. Don't put the knife away, don't turn your back. Lunge forward and stab the guy right in the chest.

Logic tells me I'd be dead before I got half way there.

Still...

"Ben!" Dean barks. "Stow it!"

Gradually, cautiously, begrudgingly, I lower my weapon, but I don't put it away. The stranger sneers. I return his gesture with a cold, hard stare.

"Your new partner seems as fond of me as Moose was," the demon makes a casual observation as he glances me over. "Not as big, though."

"What's this all about, Crowley?" Dean asks, ignoring the banter and getting right to business by motioning to the remains of Alex Trudeau. "Did you do this?"

"Yes and no," the demon shifts his attention to Dean. "I can't take credit for the dirty work, but I did release the hounds."

"Why?" Dean demands to know. "Dude died in a car crash."

"'Dude' made a deal," the demon explains. "It's not my fault he expired before his ten years were up."

"But he came back," Dean argues.

"Yes, well, there was a slight snafu in the pit. Embarrassing, really. Long story short, his soul should never have escaped and I'm simply here to collect what's already mine."

I'm surprised by how easily Dean seems to accept this response. Surprised and a little disturbed.

And why does the name Crowley sound so familiar to me?

"You know, Dean," the demon begins. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that eye patch. You know, I could fix that for you -"

"Thanks," Dean interrupts with a fake smile. "But no thanks."

"At least let Castiel give you a new one," Crowley rolls his eyes. "You look like a bloody pirate."

Dean frowns, but not because the demon called him a pirate.

"You know Cas is dead," he grumbles.

"Do I?" Crowley questions, cocking his head to one side. "Tell me, Dean, did you actually witness Castiel's demise?"

"... no," Dean admits, taken somewhat aback by the prospect his friend might still be out there.

"Even if you had, in fact, witnessed Castiel's final moments of existence, could you say for certain he was indeed dead? Feathered git has an annoying habit of coming back."

Dean lets this realization sink in.

"What do you know?" Dean presses with a narrowed eye.

"Nothing, really," Crowley shrugs. "A few whispered words in the wind. Supposedly your pal Cas has been playing human, but no one knows where or why."

"And I should believe you because...?" Dean wants to know.

"What reason could I possibly have to trick you about such a thing?" Crowley returns.

"That's a better question," Dean points out and Crowley sighs.

"Believe me, don't believe me. It's all the same to me." The demon pauses. "I don't know about you, but I've worked up quite a thirst. And, since we _are_ in the city of sin, it would be a shame to waste that thirst on dime store Scotch. What do you say then? You chaps fancy a drink and a lap dance? It's on me."

"As long as you're not the one giving out lap dances," Dean accepts the offer and I can't help but drop my jaw. "And no deals while we're there."

"Aw, you're no fun," Crowley grins before giving me a wink. "I'll see you gents at the club."

The demon vanishes before my eyes, leaving nothing but a strong, sulfuric residue in his wake.

"I'm dreaming," I speak with a stunned tone, staring blankly at the spot Crowley had occupied. "I'm having a nightmare and any second now you're going to wake me up and tell me we have a case to get to. One that doesn't involve hanging out with demons."

"What, Crowley?" Dean smoothly says with a casual shrug. "He's not so bad for the King of Hell."

_That's_ where I've heard his name. It's gotta be.

"So that really just happened?" I blink over to Dean. "We just let the King of Hell poof out of here without attempting to stop him, and now we're going to go hang out with him at a strip club?"

"He is buying," Dean points out.

"Not one week ago you stabbed a kid who'd never killed anyone in his life," I point out with a breath of rage. "And you just let the head honcho of demons escape after mutilating some poor guy's body?"

"No," Dean shakes his head. "I stabbed a kitsune which was, in case your view wasn't so great, out of self defense. And this 'poor guy' made a deal. Crowley was just collecting. Yes it's brutal and disgusting and painful as hell, but that's what happens when you sell your soul."

My lips move, but nothing comes out. I'm not convinced and I'm confused as hell.

"Look," Dean begins with a sigh when he's noticed his words don't bring me comfort. "I know this probably goes against your every instinct as a hunter."

"You're damn right it does," I agree.

"Hunting is not as black and white as you think it is," Dean continues, ignoring my last comment. "It's not just about killing the things that go bump in the night. It's about doing what's best for the world. Believe it or not, Crowley on the throne is the best thing. You think if I killed him, Hell would just fall into ruins? If Crowley died, some other black eyed or red eyed or white eyed bitch would take his place. I'm not gonna stand here and tell you I like the guy, but by now I know him. I know when he's up to something and I know his tricks. Yes, he's a demon, but as far as demons go, believe me when I say he's not that bad. Not as bad as he could be."

I'm skeptical about any demon being "not that bad", especially the King, but I don't have much of a choice but to listen to Dean. He's the expert on Hell bitches, after all. And, once again, he makes perfect sense and, once again, I feel like a dumb kid.

"Fine," I grumble in defeat. "That doesn't mean I have to like hanging out with him."

"I would be concerned if you did."

xXxXxXx

"Are you just going to sit there and sulk, then?"

Crowley looks at me expectantly as a skinny, big busted blond swirls around a pole in American flag underwear six feet in front of his choice of seats.

"Ladies not your thing, mate? There's a club for men just down the block a ways."

"He's still getting used to the concept of not killing all fugglies," Dean explains my sullen behavior, his eye fastened to the woman on stage.

"Ah, yes," Crowley nods as he continues to study me. "I forgot how uppity the young ones can be about that."

"I'm not young," I spit. "I'm twenty-five."

Crowley raises an amused brow.

"You know, we have yet to be properly introduced," he says as he holds out his right hand. "Crowley, King of Hell. And you are...?"

I narrow my eyes at him but I don't respond, nor do I shake his hand.

"That's Ben," Dean introduces me, his eye never leaving the stage.

"Ben," Crowley repeats as he withdraws his hand. "You look familiar, mate."

"I don't know why I would," I tell him with a cold breath.

"I don't either," Crowley admits, closely eyeing me. "Don't you worry. I'm sure it'll come to me."

I try to direct my attention to the stage, but it's almost impossible with the King of Hell studying you so closely. It's uncomfortable, having a guy like that focused so intently on you. The weird thing, though, is the longer he stares, the more I get the feeling hat he's actually kind of familiar to me, too. Not just the sound of his name from stories other hunters have passed around, but from some kind of past encounter my brain won't let me remember.

Crowley finally looses interest in me when a young, bleach blond woman in a skimpy cowboy costume delivers our drink orders; a top shelf Scotch for the King, a middle of the road beer for Dean and a nice tall glass of ice water for me.

"I dig the patch," she flirts with Dean as she leans in close to show off her (probably fake) cleavage while dispersing our beverages. "It's very Nick Furry. Were you in the war?"

"Yeah," Dean tells her, clearly drawn to her... let's call them assets. "I've been in a couple of them."

"How courageous," the woman goes on with an airy voice, seductively running her manicured fingers down his right arm. "I have a thing for veterans. Especially the well aged ones."

She departs with a wink, taking with her Dean's longing gaze. His eye still on her, he takes one lengthy gulp before happily slapping his hands together.

"I'll be right back," he announces, rising from his seat. "I gotta go... uh, hit the head."

"Among other things," Crowley mutters as he sips his Scotch.

"Dude." I grab Dean's arm before he can pass me. "You're seriously gonna leave me here with _him_?" I ask, speaking through clenched teeth. "So you can go bang a stripper?"

"What? No," Dean shakes his head. "She's a server, not a stripper. Less glitter." He winks (or maybe it's a really awkward blink). "Don't worry. I wouldn't leave you with him if I didn't think you couldn't handle it."

He gives me an excited pat on the shoulder before scampering off to meet up with the cowgirl. I gulp. Crowley's lips spread into a wide smile, clearly pleased either by the situation itself or my glaringly obvious discomfort. Maybe it's both.

I take a long, hard swallow from my glass, attempting not to look at the creature dressed like an Englishman. I don't care if Dean is on friendly terms with him or that he happens to be the least evil demon who could possibly wear the title of King. I don't like this one bit. I like it even less now that I've been left alone with him.

"I don't mean to pry," Crowley begins. "But what's with the water, mate? I did say I was buying, didn't I?"

"I'd rather eat glass than accept anything from a demon," I tell him with a short, cold breath.

Crowley doesn't even begin to look offended by this. In fact, if anything, he almost appears impressed.

"What's your last name, Ben?" he questions curiously. "No, wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess it. Smith? Smallwood? Phillips? No, no," he shakes his head at his own guesses. "Let's see... McDougal? McDonnell? O'Hare?" He pauses as a spark lights up in his eye and a smile spreads across his face. "Braden."

I don't have to reply. My horrorstruck face says it all as he looks at me with glee.

"Ben bloody Braden," he says with certainty. "Bastard son of Lisa Braden, a yoga instructor in Battle Creek, Michigan."

I shoot him a cold but confused stare.

"How...?"

"Don't fret," Crowley assures me, taking a slow, savory sip of his Scotch. "Your mum's not in danger. Scout's honor."

"How do you know that?" I ask him with a low growl and Crowley rolls his eyes.

"I wouldn't be a very good King if I couldn't get inside your head, mate," he tells me. "Even the lowest demon knows how to get inside a human's head."

Like I wasn't already uncomfortable.

"What else do you know?" I press him for answers and he scoffs into his glass.

"You'll have be a lot more specific," he replies. "I'm quite a bit older than you." He pauses to glance me over for the millionth time that evening. "Alright. Because I'm feeling generous, you can ask me one question and I'll answer as truthfully as I can."

I narrow my eyes at him, attempting to determine his sincerity.

"I can ask you anything?" I question skeptically.

"Why not?" he shrugs. "Make it count. I don't mind telling you what I know about you, but I get the feeling you've got your own curiosities about someone else."

He's got a point. I could keep pressing him for details about my own life where I already know every answer and I would, at the end, feeling incredibly creeped out that Crowley knows these things. Or I could gain knowledge about something someone else won't talk about.

"Is it true," I slowly begin, suddenly dying to know the answer to my question yet hesitant to be accepting any kind of offer from a demon. "How Sam Winchester died?"

"You mean Captain Dean still won't talk about Moose?" he returns my question with his own. "It's been almost ten bloody years. You'd think at some point he'd let it go and get on with his life." He pauses to let out a long exhale as his face turns mildly thoughtful. "Did Sam Winchester get blown to smithereens and scattered across the cosmos by Metatron himself?" He gives another pause, this one for dramatic effect. "That is how the story goes, isn't it?"

"That's not fair," I protest.

"Well I wasn't there," Crowley replies defensively. "I didn't witness it with my own eyes. But Dean did."

"How do you know?" I challenge.

"He told me," he replies simply.

For a minute, I'm not sure what I feel. Remorse for how Dean lost his little brother. Anger in the fact Dean was willing to share this information with the King of despair but not me, his new (human) hunting partner. Satisfied that I finally got the answer to a question Dean was unwilling to answer.

"Interesting choice in questions," Crowley casually comments, lifting his glass to his lips as a thin brunette in a devil costume takes to the stage. "I could have told you things about you that you yourself don't even know."

He might be the first demon I've ever encountered, but I'm not dumb and I'm not playing his game. No matter how badly I want to know what he might know.

Fucking demons.

* * *

_To be honest, I had mixed feelings about Dean being so easily accepting towards hanging out with Crowley. They have been kind of chummy this season, though. Ten years down the road they might still be getting along. Besides, that's where the story led me and who am I to change something like that? See, to me, stories are a lot like children; I can create them, nurture them, help them grow, but they are, to a certain extent, their own entity. I can try to change certain details about them, but they won't always like it and the changes don't always fit who (or what) they are. Maybe that's just me, though._


	9. Chupacabra?

_**Edgewood, New Mexico**_

My eyes see words but my brain is too distracted to comprehend their meaning. I've been staring at the same damn web page for close to an hour now and I've retained nothing. Seriously. I know absolutely nothing more about chupacabras now than I did an hour ago.

Fucking demons, man.

"I don't know about this," Dean's voice snaps me back to a reality I haven't been a part of for the past sixty minuets. I blink madly, attempting to moisten my dried out eyeballs as I glance up from my laptop to Dean who sits on top of a red and yellow Southwest patterned bed spread, flipping through the old journals he carries with him like a preacher carries a bible. The fact that he's read through both of them a thousand times before tonight doesn't stop him from searching the hand scrawled pages for something new.

"Did Garth really say chupacabra?"

I let loose a heavy sigh as I sleepily rub my eyes.

"He said it _sounded_ like a chupacabra," I respond as I stretch my arms. Dean has been suspicious about this whole case ever since Garth called us up three days ago and asked us to check it out. While there's no denying that something around these parts is drinking goat's blood, the veteran hunter has his doubts about the monster we're supposedly hunting.

"You ever hunt chupacabra before?" he asks as he unscrews the cap of his flask, giving his eye a break from reading.

"No," I admit, shaking my head as I watch him take a long drink.

"Yeah," he says before wiping whiskey from his lips with the sleeve of his white and blue plaid shirt. "Me either."

"Doesn't mean they don't exist," I point out, but the way he shrugs his shoulders tells me he doesn't buy it.

"Maybe," he begins as his face turns thoughtful. "It's just, you'd think I would have seen one by now. Neither my dad or Bobby mentioned a chupacabra to me or in their journals. Hell, I don't know of _any_ hunter whose actually seen one." He pauses to take another drink from his flask. "Whattcha got so far on them, anyway?"

"A few things," I reply, pretending like I've really been reading this whole time. I glance back at the glowing screen before me and quickly scan over the words my mind refused to absorb. "The first ever reports came out of Puerto Rico in '95. Most sightings of the creature have come from the Caribbean, Central and South America as well as North America with a few reports coming out of the Philippines and Russia. Descriptions of the creature vary, although they are generally reported to be tall, alien looking creatures with spikes that run down their spine. They drink goat or sheep blood, generally leaving three puncture wounds in the neck and supposedly drain the animal of blood. However, over 300 of alleged chupacabra 'victims' were autopsied by veterinarians who discovered not all of the animal's blood was missing."

"The more you read, the more I'm getting the impression chupacabras are just another Big Foot," Dean tells me with a bored voice. "What do the local reports say?"

"Um..." I shuffle through the police reports we picked up earlier in the day, which had been sitting neatly beside my computer at the motel desk. "No autopsies were performed."

"How much you wanna bet we're dealing with a satanic cult?" Dean speculates.

I flip through reports and photographs, attempting to focus but not quite able.

"What's up with you?" Dean questions and I shake my head.

"Nothing," I lie.

"You didn't let Crowley get to you, did you?"

My silence serves as my response while my eyes pretend to study one of the multiple photographs of a dead goat. It has been bothering me, what Crowley said. It's not necessarily the _how_ he knows things about me that I don't, but the _what_ that bugs me.

"I don't know what he said to you," Dean goes on. "But you can't take anything a demon says personally. They'll say just about anything if they know it'll get to you."

My brows fold into a confused frown as I glimpse back up at Dean.

"I thought you said Crowley wasn't that bad?" I say.

"He's not," Dean nods. "For a demon. But he's still a demon and if there's one thing a demon enjoys as much as destruction, it's messing with someone's head."

Yeah, okay. Fine. _But what does Crowley know about me?_

"Whatever he said, just let it go," Dean says. "There's a chance he's lying."

"But what if he's not?" I propose.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dean insists. "It's probably nothing."

I try to convince myself Crowley was making a mountain out of a mole hill, but I have a feeling it's going to nag at me for a while.

"Whaddya got?" he asks me, attempting to redirect my focus away from the king and back to the case at hand. "Any of the goats have three puncture wounds?"

"Yes and no," I shake my head as I respond, glancing back down at the pictures in my hand. "Puncture wounds yes. But a lot more than three. Something's definitely been sucking on goats. Something familiar..."

I study the picture more closely, looking at the ring of bite marks embedded in the goat's neck. Dean climbs off of his bed and snatches the photograph from my grasp to study it for himself. The way his face drops tells me he knows exactly what did this.

"Now this makes sense," he begins sincerely. "Looks like there's a vamp in town."

While I know I should be able to identify a simple and obvious thing like the mark of a vampire, I can't help but feel a little mad at Dean for not pointing this out earlier.

"You're telling me I've been researching lore on a creature that probably doesn't even exist for the last hour when you could have just looked at the damn picture yourself?" I question, not bothering to mask the annoyance I feel. Dean frowns, clearly unappreciative of my tone.

"I put you on report duty," he firmly reminds me, tossing the picture back. I snatch the photo before it can flutter to the ground, clutching it so hard I wrinkle its smooth surface. "This is what happens when you let yourself get distracted. You're just lucky you only wasted an hour. It could have been a lot worse."

Great. Now I'm pissed and embarrassed. My jaw clenches as color rises to my face and I glance back down at the photograph gripped between my fingers. I really don't want to ask the question that's at the forefront of my mind, but between Crowley, my anger and my embarrassment, my judgment is too clouded for me to formulate the answer.

"Now what?" I quietly ask.

"What do you mean?" Dean returns harshly, clearly not amused by my tone or the time my distracted mind has wasted for the both of us.

"I mean, if there's a vamp in town, it's obviously not going after people," I point out. "If it's not killing anyone, it's not something to hunt, right? So... what do we do?"

"We check it out," Dean says, his temper soothing some. "Track it down, make sure it's diet is purely animal blood. Just because it's not going after people right now doesn't mean it won't."

Right. Obviously.

Operation: Prove Yourself to Dean isn't going well so far.

Come on, Ben, I psych myself up as we silently collect our vampire slaying gear and prepare for a late night stakeout. Get your shit together. Forget you even met Crowley and track this sucker like a pro. Make Dean proud.

Wait, what? Make Dean _proud_? Where did _that_ come from?

xXxXxXx

"I'm gonna smell like goat for a week," I complain as I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"Yeah, well, you're more likely to catch a vamp if you smell more like prey than predator," Dean reminds me, his eye scanning the not too distant farm before us with a pair of heavy black binoculars.

"I know," I nod, shifting in my seat as I gaze out the windshield of Dean's parked Impala. "It's still not a pleasant smell."

A full moon illuminates the arid landscape around us, making it easy to spot anything suspicious or abnormal that might wander into view. As I keep a watch for signs of a supernatural humanoid, my mind wanders to Garth, as it usually does this time of the lunar cycle. I hope he's made it to his cell alright, the one he and his wife built for themselves behind their tavern in an old fall out shelter. I should remember to call him in the morning.

Stifling a yawn, I glance down at the empty cup holders and let loose a small, longing sigh for the coffee I'd love to be drinking right about now. We had to nix the caffeine (and booze) for this stakeout or our efforts to smell like a filthy goat would have been completely fruitless. You never realize how dependent on coffee you become until you're forced to live without it for an evening.

I push my caffeine lust to the back of my mind as I return my gaze to the desert landscape and the goats that sleep under a blanket of stars. Still just a bunch of goats and no sign of vampires. I don't think I've even seen a coyote yet.

I yawn again, this time out of boredom, and glance at Dean. I feel like I should buy him a spyglass. Then again, he'd probably take it the wrong way and kick my ass and I personally like my ass the way it is. You know, comfortable to sit on, lacking in the colors black and/or blue.

"You want me to use those?" I offer. Dean cocks a brow as he slowly puts the lenses down and turns his head towards me.

"Why?" he asks. "Does it bother you to see a man with one eye using binoculars?"

"N-no," I stammer, realizing I should have just kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the goats. "I was just..." I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find the right, inoffensive words to explain my simple offer. "I didn't mean..."

Dean smirks as he watches my cheeks turn a soft shade of embarrassed.

"Relax," he says. "I was joking."

Oh. Dean made a funny. That's... different.

"And no, I don't want you to use the binoculars," he continues as he peers through them once more. "I'm the one missing an eye here. I can use all the help I can get."

Fair enough I guess.

"Looks like we got company," he states. I sit up and search the area he's looking at.

"Where?" I ask, not finding what he sees.

"There," he points as he hands me the binoculars for a better view. "Vampire at ten o'clock."

Looking through the spy gear, I can see who he's talking about. A trim young woman with long, toned legs sneaks around a building with a machete sheathed at her hip. Dressed in shorts, black boots and a black and white plaid button down shirt, she inches through the darkness with a swift silence. Blond hair spills around her shoulders with streaks of black in a reverse highlight fashion. From this distance it's impossible to tell what color her eyes are, but I know they're a bright shade of blue green that can captivate and entrance.

"She's not a vampire," I tell Dean, handing the binoculars back to him. "She's a hunter."

"You know her?" he asks, peering through them again as the woman leaps over the fence.

"Her name's April," I reply as a fond smile finds my lips and my mind wanders. "She's twenty-three. Originally from Salem, Oregon. A gemini and a die hard Mumford and Sons fan. Got into the life after demons possessed her folks when she was sixteen. Her favorite food is pineapple. Her favorite drink is vodka."

"Let me guess," Dean stops me before I can give him too much detail. "You two are 'just friends'?"

"Yes," I grumble, the smile on my face falling at this vocalized fact. "She's got a _boyfriend_," I add, emphasizing the word 'boyfriend' with a note of disdain. "I don't know what she sees in him. He's a total douche bag and not a very good hunter if you ask me."

"And you're pretty sure you two are just meant to be?" Dean guesses and I shrug.

"We do kind of have a deep connection," I slowly admit, something that causes Dean to sigh and rub the bridge of his nose between his eyes, as if the subject were giving him a headache. It hits me that the topic is probably one of the last things Dean wants to talk about, well, ever. He at least has the courtesy not to roll his eye just yet.

"I donno," I say with a sigh, babbling on before Dean can tell me to shut it. "She's just perfect, you know? She's smart, funny, a great hunter and beautiful on top of it. I've pretty much been in love with her since I met her. I can't believe she's dating that Ryan ass..."

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Dean says, his eye fixed dead ahead. "Not necessarily because the theatrics of the young and the dramatic don't interest me, but your 'not a vampire just a hunter friend' is sucking on a goat's neck."

"What!?"

I snatch the binoculars from Dean's hand and lift them to my eyes. It doesn't take me long to find April who kneels in the dirt with her lips pressed firmly to the neck of a goat as her hands hold the animal still. Just as Dean said.

"She's not into goats, is she?" Dean questions as I press the binoculars back into his grasp. "I don't want to judge if she is, but..."

"Shut up," I mutter absently as I climb out of the Impala. My mind wheels as I race towards her in an attempt to come up with an excuse for what April seems to be doing. My brain doesn't want to believe what my eyes see, but there's no explanation. None other than the obvious, and it's a nauseating thought.

My pace slows greatly as I hop the fence, my feet finding short, cautious steps versus long, hurried strides. April seems oblivious to my presence, keeping her back turned as she feasts. I gag as I inch closer and discover I have difficulty finding my voice.

"A... April?" I choke past the lump that grows in my throat.

The blond drops the poor animal and spins on her heels, wiping blood from her lips as her eyes grow wide at the sight of me.

"Ben?" she asks, clearly surprised to see me. "What... what are you doing here?"

"I'm... on a case," I reply and her gaze falls to the ground. "Are you... are you what we're hunting?"

"I guess that depends on what you're after," she responds before giving me an inquisitive look. "Who's 'we'?"

Her eyes grow wide as she spies the aging hunter that approaches from behind me.

"Winchester," she whispers, taking a frightened step back.

"Chill out, Twilight," Dean assures her. "Your head is safe for now."

April frowns as she studies him, uncertain of the legend's sincerity.

"What happened, April?" I have to ask, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact the woman I've been crushing on for the past five years is standing before me with a mouth full of fangs and blood at the corner of her lips.

"Ryan and I were raiding a nest in San Antonio last month," she begins, keeping a wary eye on Dean as she speaks. "We got most of 'em, but one of 'em got me before I could get him. Occupational hazard, I guess."

I'd laugh if it weren't completely horrible.

Now that I think about it, life in general since I teamed up with Dean has been, more or less, horrible. Not everything or every detail, but the lessons I've slowly been learning along the way are, to say the least, crushing. Sobering. Yet, until now, I haven't really truly asked myself what I'm doing here. And what's more heart breaking than seeing the woman I love transformed is the fact that it's taken just that for me to really start questioning my once eager and completely voluntary involvement in this terrible, awful life.

_What am I doing here?_

* * *

_Yes, there is a part deux and I assure you the lesson here is going to get a lot more tough than realizing what "occupational hazard" means in the hunter's world. I will post the second part as soon as I can, but I can't lie, my focus has been a little lax as of late (more so than usual anyway). That and my alter ego (who writes cheesy romance paperbacks with images of a half naked Fabio painted on the front cover... in the universe where I get paid to put words together) is howling for freedom from the cage I've currently got her locked up in. A part of her tried to sneak out here, as you can see, and I don't know how much longer I can hold her back.  
Anyway, I hope all who are still reading are still enjoying. Don't forget to make my day and review! :)_


	10. Heads Will Roll

**_Still Edgewood, New Mexico - Three Days Later_**

My dark eyes stare up at the ceiling but I'm so lost in thought they barely notice the imperfect, speckled strokes and smears that could, if I were to turn my imagination on (or eat some psychedelics), resemble an endless amount of creatures, objects and faces. The fingers of my left hand lovingly run themselves through the blond and black hair that belong to April, who sleepily rests her head on my chest. I carefully avoid contact with her skin which, despite the sun kissed hue, has grown frigid to the touch and a painful reminder of what she's become.

Dean's been nice enough to give me time with her. He hasn't even complained once about staying these past three days. If - or, rather, when - he starts moaning about wasting perfectly good time hanging out with a vampire when we could be hunting something more problematic, I'll tell him to move on without me. That I'll catch up somehow. Right now, my place is with April who is, surprisingly, the restless one.

I guess I'd be restless too if I didn't feel well enough to travel and got stuck in some crappy motel in some town between here and there. April swears the transformation isn't agreeing with her "hunter blood" and hasn't been up to the challenge of moving on. Dean, on the other hand, is confident that's simply what it's like to be a vampire.

"Your heart beat is so loud," April whispers but I don't say anything. I'm still trying to accept this, the vampire nestled under my arm and the fact she used to be the object of my affections.

Who am I kidding? She still is. This could still work. She hasn't killed anyone yet. She'd probably be a cheep date, too. If only she'd get rid of Ryan...

Speaking of...

"Where's your _boyfriend_?" I ask, trying to swallow the bitter taste the word leaves in my mouth.

"He's picking up some... food..." she replies, embarrassed by what "food" now means to her.

"What are you going to do?" I change the subject in an attempt to dismiss the thought of her surviving solely on blood.

"Ryan found a nest up in Denver," April says with a sigh. "They're on a donation only diet. As soon as I stop feeling like crap all the time, we're gonna drive up and join them."

"Ryan's going with you?" I question with a hint of disappointment in my breath.

"I guess so," she says with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"I donno. It's just... he's a human, you know? And a hunter. You really think an entire nest of vamps are going to let him near them?"

I leave out the part where I remind her that he's a flaming douche.

"This doesn't have anything to do with the massive crush you have on me, does it?" she asks.

For a minute, I don't respond. I swallow past the lump in my throat as I slowly sit up, gently brushing April's head away from my chest.

"He's not right for you, April," I speak as my eyes sweep the red shag carpet of her motel room. "Hell, he's not right for anyone."

Seriously. I know I just sound like the jealous Ducky friend over here, but the guy's a jerk. I can't help but hope he gets turned into something himself one of these days so I can hunt him down and chop off his head or put a silver bullet between his eyes.

"Ben..." April begins.

"You know he's bad news," I cut her off, turning my head to look at her. "Has he even offered to let you turn him?"

"What? No," she frowns as she shakes her head. "That's ridiculous. Why would..." She trails off as the realization strikes. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Yes," I whisper sincerely. "I am. I would go Twilight in a heartbeat if it meant I got to be with you."

I would, too. I'd give up the life and the road and my spot in Dean's Impala for her. I'd happily trade all that in for a mouth full of fangs and an incessant hunger for blood if it meant I could spend the rest of my life with her. Granted, if I were to become a vampire, that life could last hundreds of years, but that would probably be the selling point for me since fangs and bloodlust aren't really all that appealing.

"I wish you wouldn't refer to us as 'Twilight'," is how April responds as she folds her arms across her chest. "And I can't turn you, Ben. I can't turn anyone. That's not fair. I don't want this. Why would you?"

"Because I love you," I confess, staring her in the eyes as I tell her something she's already known.

For a really hot second, I'm almost certain she's going to press her lips on mine. That she's finally going to see what we could be together and let herself fall for me the way I fell for her.

And then the damn door opens.

"What's going on in here?"

April squints and puts a hand up to shield her sensitive eyes from the flood of daylight that enters the room between the muscular, brown haired, green eyed man who stands in the doorway. He kicks the door shut with his right foot as he enters the room with a suspicious frown across his brow and a white plastic grocery bag in his hand.

Ryan. He looks like a Jersey Shore Abecrombie & Fitch went to Bonaroo and threw up all over him. He's a shade too orange to have obtained his tan the good old fashioned way, and his sneakers are too clean to be hunter's footwear. He wears one of those tacky faux vintage shirts that boasts the name of a nudist camp that probably never existed from a year that predates his own birth, as well as a pair of kaki colored shorts and rasta colored sweat bands.

As a self proclaimed "good guy", the frustration is never ending that jerks like him have been outwardly expressing their inner douche for decades and girls _still_ flock to them.

"Just talking," April calmly replies as Ryan eyes me with jealousy, which is the typical look I receive from him. "You remember Ben, don't you?"

"Sure," Ryan grumbles as he sets the bag on the table and begins extracting white styrofoam take-out boxes from inside.

"Where'd you go?" April asks, watching him dig out food boxes.

"Had to go to Albuquerque," he says. "The hospital here doesn't have a huge supply."

"So... did you get it?" she questions with a hungry look in her eye. Ryan pauses in his task and hangs his head.

"Shit," he mutters with a long sigh, turning to give April a set of big puppy eyes. "I'm sorry, Ape. I stopped at a smoke shop on the way back, I think I left the bags there."

April fumes. Her nostrils flare, her cheeks grow red with rage and her pupils dilate so much they almost swallow her blue green iris's. She's not just angry. She's hungry.

"You smell like another woman," she states, sniffing the air.

Me, all I can smell is the stench of too much body spray mixed in with the skunky smell of weed. But I wouldn't be surprised if there were undertones of another female's perfume on his skin, and if anyone can smell it right now, it would be April.

"I'm gonna go," I softly announce, rising from the bed. "Um... call me?"

April doesn't look at me. The way she glares at Ryan would indicate she didn't hear me at all. So I just slowly back towards the door and let myself out of the room. That's one domestic dispute I don't wanna see.

I walk the mile and a half back to the motel where Dean and I are currently residing, all the while wondering and wishing. Maybe Dean would let me borrow the Impala for a couple of hours. I could go get her some blood and bring it to her. By then, maybe she'd have kicked Ryan to the curb and we could at least have one night together.

I shouldn't be thinking these things. I'm a hunter for Christ's sake. It's one thing to let a vampire walk. It's quite another to seriously contemplate actually stealing blood from a hospital to feed one. Or, worse, seriously consider becoming one.

_Just stop_, I tell myself as I approach my room door. _Don't get your hopes up_.

_Wait, no. That's not a good thing to hope for. Think about puppies. Or the new Marvel movie. Yeah, think about that. It's gonna be awesome_...

Dean's voice drifts through the door and I pause to listen before intruding.

"Cas?" I hear him speak. "You got your ears on, Cas? Shit, I don't know if you're even really out there."

Huh. Looks like I'm not the only one Crowley got to.

"Look, Cas," he goes on after a moment of silence. "If you are out there, if you're still alive, I just want to say..." Pause. "I forgive you, Cas. Okay? I forgive you for abandoning me. I forgive you for letting me try to kill myself. You probably saw that, with the griffin in Jersey."

I feel kind of bad, eves dropping on a private prayer like this. At the same time, despite the morbid content, it's a little, well, _nice_ to know Dean's not this empty, emotionless robot. It's kind of a bummer knowing he faced off with a griffin as a suicide attempt, but, at this point, I probably should have guessed as much.

"I lost an eye, you know?" Dean goes on. "But I forgive you for not being there. Okay, Cas? Do you hear me? I forgive you. I just... I just want to see you again. Make sure you're alive. It... it would mean a lot if you could just show me I'm not really..." Pause. "... alone."

I swallow hard as I digest Dean's desperate prayer. While I've slowly been learning who Dean really is, it never occurred to me he actually felt much of anything before. He hides it well and, lets be honest, with the amount he drinks I guess I assumed he was just constantly numb. I never really stopped to think there might be a reason he's been trying to numb himself.

Slowly I make my entrance into the motel room. Dean sits at the edge of his bed with his flask held loosely in his hands. At a quick glance I can see his eye water with tears he's too proud to spill.

"Hey," I quietly say as he turns away, quickly unscrewing the cap of his container.

"How's your friend?" Dean asks before lifting the object to his lips.

"She's... you know," I say with a shrug. "Dealing."

I pause to ponder my next words. Part of me wants to comfort Dean, tell him he's not alone now. He's got me and I'm (probably) not going anywhere. The other part of me, the logical part, tells me it would be a bad idea to let him know I just listened in on a private, one-way conversation between him and an angel who may or may not be alive.

"Thanks for hanging out here awhile," I say instead. "I really appreciate you letting me spend some time with April."

Dean scoffs as he puts his flask down and looks back to me, his eye now completely dry.

"I'm not hanging out here for you," he tells me simply with a flat tone. "I'm doing my job."

"What do you mean?" I have to ask, not sure exactly what his job is here at this point.

"Look," Dean says with a short sigh. "I know she's a hunter and you think she's going to keep her nose clean. And I'm willing to wait it out and see if you're right. But she's also a freshly made vampire, and it's a hell of a lot harder to control what instinct is telling you if you're not used to dealing with it."

"How would you know?" I challenge as Dean takes another sip from his flask.

"Because I was a vampire once," he easily shares, as if it were no big deal.

"What!?" I cry. "How are you...?"

"How am I not now?" he finishes. "There's a cure."

"And you just thought you'd keep that to yourself?" I question angrily.

"It only works if the vamp hasn't fed," Dean tells me with a sigh. "She's obviously already fed. Even if we hadn't seen it, there's no way she'd be able to resist for that long. I was a vampire for a day and I barely made it."

The way he looks at me as he tells me this, it's like he feels guilty about something. He opens his mouth to continue but, at the last second, decides to take another drink instead.

"So you're just sitting here waiting for her to slip up?" I question and he shrugs.

"If that's how you want to see it, then yeah," he says. "I guess I am."

"That's just... peachy," I mutter.

"If it makes you feel better, it's not like I'm rooting for her to go full-on monster," Dean attempts to reassure me. "It's my - no, it's _our_ - responsibility to make sure that doesn't happen."

"She won't," I tell him with an unwavering confidence. "She's got a place lined up. A nest of vamps on a strict donation-only diet. She'll be gone before you know it."

"Good," Dean nods. "I hope she makes it. But as long as she's in town, so are we."

xXxXxXx

I can't sleep. April never called me. She didn't even answer me when I tried calling her. I'm starting to worry about her. I'm also a little worried about Dean. Not just what he might do to her if she does slip, but him in general. Whenever I manage to get April off my mind, I can't help but recall the confession he made in his prayer. About him going up against the griffin. It makes me wonder how many monsters he's gone up against in hopes that he ultimately looses. And is he still trying to loose, even though he's not alone anymore?

I realize I'm not meant to sleep tonight when a call comes through over the police scanner set on the night stand between my bed and Dean's bed.

"Dispatch, this is officer Burton," a staticy voice cuts through the silence. "We've got a one-eight-seven down at Guyer's Liquor. Make that a double one-eight-seven. Requesting ambulance and back-up. Over."

"Ten-four, officer," a woman responds as Dean stirs under his covers and I sit up. "Is suspect in custody? Over."

"Suspect has yet to be identified," the police officer responds. "Over."

"Is the suspect armed? Over."

Dean slowly sits up, dangling his legs over the side of the bed as he sleepily scratches his head and carefully listens.

"I... I don't know," the officer replies, completely dropping his official-sounding tone. "It looks like these boys were bit by... I don't know what. Over."

My heart sinks and my stomach drops. Dean glances at me with a sorrowful gaze before rising to his feet to grab his jeans and a pair of socks.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he quietly attempts to comfort me. "I really did hope she'd pull through."

I want to believe this wasn't her. That maybe she turned Ryan and he's the one who killed the guys down at the liquor store. That she's still strong and I get to decapitate an asshole. I want more than anything to believe she's still in her motel room or at the goat farm, innocently drinking animal blood while the other guy is on a rampage. But I just can't, because I know better and, honestly, my luck's not all that great.

Dean and I swing by the liquor store first to confirm the bite marks do, in fact, belong to a vampire. A third victim who was fortunate enough to survive gives us a description of his assailant which, of course, accurately paints us a vivid picture of my poor April, right down to what she was wearing when I left her motel earlier. We swing by her room to see if she's there, even though we both know she's too smart to have returned to the first place two hunters would go looking for her.

Sure enough, the room is dark and empty when we arrive. Empty, save for the cold body that used to belong to Ryan, which lays stiff on the red shag carpet only a foot or so away from the bed. Given his body temperature and the cold, untouched take-out food on the table, April killed him shortly after I left.

"Damn it," Dean sighs when he sees the first of three bodies my friend's made.

"Don't feel too bad for him," I tell Dean, who shoots me an angry look.

"I don't care if you didn't like the guy," he barks. "He didn't deserve to die. Not like this."

I could argue that Dean didn't know him, but he's probably right. Jerk or not, it's seldom a person actually deserves a death sentence.

_Well, you got your wish, Ben_, I bitterly think as I stroll to the parking lot. _April's single. And Dean's going to make you cut her head off_.

"Her car's gone," I inform Dean once he's alerted the police of Ryan's body.

"Shit," Dean curses. "She mention where this nest she's joining is?"

"No," I lie through my teeth. I know this is wrong, me protecting her like this. It doesn't just violate the unwritten hunter's code, but it kind of goes against morality. Every instinct within me screams out "tell Dean! Head north and save anyone who might cross April's path before she can get there! Do your fucking job!" But I don't, because I want her to live a nice, long, unnatural undead life. Even if that means I'll never see her again.

"Albuquerque's the closest city," Dean thinks out loud, agitated we managed to let one little vampire slip through our fingers. "It's where I'd go if I was trying to shake a couple of hunters."

I know she's headed north, but I don't bother to correct Dean. If we go south, she'll get a good head start and have time to clean up her act.

My plans go to hell when we reach our motel room to pack up. Sitting on my bed in the dark is April, quietly waiting for us. Even in the cover of night I can see the blood smeared across her face, coating her lips. As I inch closer, I can see the tears that streak down her cheeks and, for some reason, it makes me happy because seeing her cry confirms that she's not a monster. Not really.

"Ben..." Dean quietly warns, attempting to defer me from getting too close to her.

"It's fine," I whisper back as I stride towards the vampire. "April?"

"Hey, Ben," she breathes, attempting a small smile through her pain. "Sorry I didn't call."

"It's okay," I assure her, inching carefully towards her. "What... what happened?"

"What happened?" Dean echoes shortly. "She bled three people dry, that's what happened."

"Dean..." I begin, but she cuts me off.

"It's okay, Ben," she gently tells me. "He's right. That was me. I did that."

"You shouldn't have come here, April," I point out as I sit beside her.

"I had to," she tells me. "I had no other choice."

"You could have ran," I point out and she shakes her head, giving Dean a quick glance.

"No," she insists. "I can't run from what I am. And god knows I can't run from a Winchester."

My heart begins to break as my stomach leaps into my throat once I realize exactly why she came here. Part of me was hoping she was seeking help and, to some extent, I'm not wrong. But she's not looking for help the way a drug addict looks for help and it's not her she wants us to help. It's everyone else she's trying to save.

"April, you can't... I can't..." I shake my head, my words tripping over my tongue.

"You have to, Ben," she tells me as she presses her machete into my hands.

"No," I shake my head. "I don't."

"What other options do we have?" she demands to know.

"You could go live with Garth," I spew the first idea that comes to mind. "He can teach you how live without..."

Without what? Blood? She's a fucking vampire.

"Oh, Ben," April gives me a sad, half smile as she places a tender hand on my shoulder. "Garth's a wolf, not a fang. We're two completely different monsters. He couldn't teach me anything."

I hate how right she is.

"Please, Ben," she pleads again when I remain silent, helping my fingers close around the cool hilt of her own blade. "I can't do this myself and I can't live like this. You don't know what it's like. I couldn't stop myself and I can't promise I'll never do it again."

"I could help you..." I attempt one last plea, something she rejects with a simple shake of her head. My heart grows heavy as the tears well in my eyes and my mind spins.

And then she does something completely unexpected. She leans in and places a long, tender kiss on my lips.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," she apologizes, resting her cold forehead on mine as she speaks.

"April, I can't..." I begin before I choke on my own words.

"I'll do it," Dean speaks up. I'd almost forgotten he was there.

April turns to look at him and gives him a small smile.

"Thanks, Mr. Winchester," she says.

"It's Dean," he kindly corrects her as he takes a firm grasp of his own machete.

"Dean," she repeats with a small smile before looking to me one more time. "Bye, Ben."

Slowly, she rises to her feet and lets a long, hard sigh pass her lips as she strides towards the older hunter. I remain frozen to my seat as a single tear slips from my right eye and slides down my cheek.

"Ready?" Dean gently asks as she exhales one last time.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she nods, squeezing her eyes shut. I watch Dean bring his blade back to gain the right inertia to slice through bone and I want to throw up.

"No!" I cry, jumping to my feet. Dean pauses as April turns to face me. "I'll do it."

"Thank you," she whispers as Dean slowly lowers his blade and takes a step back. I wipe the sweat from my palms to gain a better grip of April's weapon before I can mimic Dean's own motions, drawing it back so the edge glistens just behind my head.

"I love you," I tell her.

"I know," she whispers sadly. "I love you too, Ben."

Before I can change my mind and subject April to the torture of waiting to die, I swing the blade with a clean, fluid motion. Within a single second, her head falls to the floor, followed shortly by the rest of her. Despite the fact I knew it was going to happen, a loud gasp escapes my throat as a few more tears break free.

"I'm sorry, Ben," Dean offers sincere condolences, gently placing a hand on my shoulder as he speaks. He pauses to allow this all sink in. "Look, man. I'd like to give you a minute but... you know. Dead chick on the motel floor."

"Yeah," I nod, wiping the salty tears from my face. "Right."

Dean strips his own bed of its sheets and silently lays it over April's lifeless body.

"She didn't love me," I share with him, not quite ready to help him in this gory task. "Not the way I loved her."

"So?" Dean questions as he works. "She still loved you. Isn't that what matters?"

"Yeah," I whisper as April's blade falls from my fingers. "I guess it is."

* * *

_Yes, a smoke shop in New Mexico. Before anyone points out the fact that sort of thing is only completely legal in two states (one of which is not NM), I'd like to remind you this story is set in the future. Change happens and national legalization seems like a feasible feat at this point._

_I was going to apologize for the feels, but I'm not sorry so I can't. We're all SPN fangirls & boys here. We're used to getting punched in the feels every week. Just trying to stay true to the Supernatural Universe._


	11. Conversations With Dean Winchester

_In honor of the fact that it is not Ragnörak (which was kind of debatable where I live - we had a brutal and exceptionally long winter) and the fact the sun is shining **and** melting the snow (sun here doesn't always equal warmth), here's an early release of Chapter Eleven for your enjoyment. I hope it's spring where you are, too!  
(By the by, for those who aren't familiar with the story of Ragnörak, it's the Norse "twilight of the Gods" a.k.a. apocalypse, which begins with a three year long winter via polar vortex. I'm a myth geek deluxe, especially for the Scandinavian lore.)_

* * *

_**Between Here & There**_

I'm having a hard time adjusting to life after April. It's not really the fact that I had to let go of the girl I loved I have a hard time coming to terms with. In my line of work, I've killed a lot of things, but never once was it a familiar face. Up until last week, I'd never had to send someone I actually knew packing to... well, I don't know where monsters go when they die, but there. And it sucks that she was the one I had to do it to.

"Where do monsters go when they die?" I ask Dean who looks away from the road long enough to give me a curious look.

"You should stop thinking about April," he advises me instead of supplying me with a response. "It's distracting you. Which is fine for now, but I'm not going to be the one who has to break it to your mom that a monster ate your face because you couldn't stop thinking about a dead vampire. Besides, you don't really want to know."

"So you _do_ know," I say and Dean rolls his eye.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," he repeats with a slight shudder.

"Come on," I urge him to share. "At least give me a hint. Will I ever see her again? When I die, I mean."

"Maybe," he replies with a short shrug. "For your sake you'd better hope not."

"Why?" I press. "Is it... Hell?"

"No," Dean shakes his head. "It is next door though."

"Come on," I pester, annoyed he seems to think I can't handle the reality of where I've been sending monsters these past seven years. "I'm a big boy, I can handle the truth."

Dean extracts his flask from his inner pocket and, for a minute, I think he's just going to let me wonder. He takes a quick sip, maintaining his focus on the road before us as he does. I sigh.

"There are three places someone can go when they die," Dean begins at last. "The good go to Heaven. The bad go to Hell, and the ugly... they go to Purgatory."

I gulp as a culpable pain settles in the pit of my stomach. I sent April to Purgatory?

"What about ghosts?" I ask, attempting to take my mind off my guilty conscience.

"They're not technically monsters," Dean points out. "So Heaven. Or Hell."

"So all monsters just get a one-way ticket to Purgatory when they die?" I attempt to clarify. Dean nods as he takes another drink from his flask before putting it away.

"Yep," he confirms.

"Even vampires?"

"Especially vampires."

"But... but they were people once," I argue. "They weren't born monsters."

"Hey, I don't make the rules," Dean puts his hands up defensively. "I just know where everyone goes."

"How do you know for sure?" I challenge and Dean groans. Again, a long moment of silence takes over and I'm almost sure he's going to keep me guessing.

"Because," he finally replies with a sullen tone. "I've been there."

"Where?" I question. "Purgatory?"

"Purgatory," he lists. "Hell. Apparently I've been to Heaven multiple times but I only remember the last trip."

Now that he mentions it, I do remember one of the legends about Dean is that he doesn't stay dead. Come to think of it, I had heard he crawled out of Hell just to stop the Apocalypse. I guess I had filed those away under "myth" before I even met him, based on the sheer ridiculousness of them.

I have so many questions now, but I know I'll be lucky to get an answer to any of them.

"How did you get out of Hell?" I ask one anyway. His brows crease as a memory surfaces at the forefront of his mind. He reaches for his flask and takes a long, hard pull.

"An angel pulled me out," he replies. He doesn't have to tell me which one. The way he stares beyond the road, the way he takes desperate gulps from his flask, I know it was Castiel.

"How'd you end up in the pit?" I ask, watching him tuck the silver object back into his jacket.

"I sold my soul," he grumbles.

I can't believe he's actually answering me. It's taken me months to get much of anything out of him. Does he finally feel comfortable with me sitting where I know Sam once sat?

"Why?" I press my luck.

"You hear from Garth lately?" he swiftly changes the subject, signaling he's done with my game.

Shit. I got so distracted when I found out April was a vampire, I forgot to call him.

I dig my phone out of my jean's pocket and wordlessly dial the Tavern's number.

"Ben, buddy," Garth answers with enthusiasm. "What's up? I was starting to worry a chupacabra switched to long pig."

"Hey, Garth," I say. "Nope, we're fine. It, uh... it turned out to be a vampire. Dean doesn't think chupacabra's exist."

"Either way, it's good to know you're still on your feet. I'm glad you called, man. I got a grizzly case up in Montana. You want it?"

"Grizzly?" I echo in the form of a question. "Like... the bear?"

"What? No," Garth replies and I know he finds my last question amusingly absurd. "Well, they are blaming a grizzly, but I meant grizzly the adjective. You know, gruesome."

"I think grizzly the adjective actually means 'gray'," I correct my ex-dentist, ex-hunter, werewolf/innkeeper friend. "Devoid of hue."

"Well, it is dark," Garth defends himself. "Somethin's eatin' folks up near Whitefish."

I take the blue, ball-point pen out of my pocket and make notes on the palm of my hand as Garth supplies me with information.

"Whitefish," I repeat as I write the town's name across calluses. "That's up in the mountains, right?"

"Yep," Garth confirms. "Near Glacier."

"You think it's a windego?" I question.

"Sounds like a windego's M.O.," Garth agrees. "Seems like the attacks are a little close to civilization for a windego though. You guys'll have to do a little research on this one."

"No problem," I promise. "We're on it, man."

"I knew I could count on you," Garth says. "How's the hunting trail with Dean?"

"It's... you know..." I glance at the driver, not sure if he can hear the other end of the conversation or not. "A learning experience."

"I guess that's one way to put it," Garth says with a small laugh. "Take care, alright? And give a guy a call when you dispose of this next monster, huh?"

"Sure, Garth," I promise. "I'll talk to you later."

Dean gives me an expectant look as I end the call, waiting for me to share the little information I've just gathered.

"Whitefish, huh?" he says, having overhead at least part of the conversation.

"I guess so," I nod.

"I hear you say windego?" he questions.

"You did," I nod. "Something's eating people."

"Sounds like a windego," Dean nods. "What'd Garth say?"

"He said it could be a windego," I reply. "But the attacks seem to be a little close to town for that. You know of anything else that actually eats people?"

Dean ponders this, but not for long.

"Rugaru," he says.

"Ruga-what?" I say with a skeptical look.

"Rugaru," Dean repeats.

"That sounds made up," I tell him flatly. "Or like something Scooby-Doo would say."

"Well it's not," Dean solemnly assures me. "They're nasty. Super strong, too. It's a good thing you're with me. Hunting one on your own is basically suicide."

"Says the guy who went up against a griffin solo," I mutter before I can think anything of it. Dean frowns.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he challenges as I silently beat myself up.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid..._

"What?" is what comes out of my mouth first in an attempt to stall for the rest of a reason to formulate. "I'm just agreeing that it's a good thing that I'm with you, since you could probably take it on yourself and win."

Did that sound as sincere out loud as it did in my head?

The look Dean gives me is suspicious but, for now, he's going to buy it. Or, at the very least, let it go.

"Anyway," he dismisses the last minute to return to the original conversation. "There's a cabin up there we can stay in."

"Awesome," I say, relieved he's temporarily bought my excuse. "I could use a break from the motel life."

xXxXxXx

**_Whitefish, Montana_**

"This is not what I had in mind when you said cabin."

My eyes sweep the interior of our lodgings with an extreme lack of enthusiasm. It's cold, drafty and dusty would be putting it mildly. A layer of leaves six inches deep have collected along the floor, nearly wall to wall like some kind of decaying foliage carpet, and the roof is a good rainstorm away from completely collapsing. Half the windows are shattered. The other half are so grimy it's nearly impossible to tell if it's day or night, or what even sits in the world just beyond.

"It's been a while since I've been up here," Dean admits, clearly nowhere near as disgusted as I am.

"How long?" I ask.

"Donno," he shrugs. "Pretty sure I had both my eyes though."

"Great," I mutter sarcastically as Dean shuffles past me with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"It's not that bad," he claims. "There's a broom around here somewhere. All it needs is a little sweep. Maybe a little TLC on the fuse box."

"Fine," I grumble, shaking my own bag from my shoulder which I cautiously place on a rickety looking table. "But I find anything bigger than a mouse living in here, I'm sleeping in the Impala."

"Don't be such a baby," Dean rolls his eye. "You're a hunter for crying out loud."

"Doesn't make me any less anti-rabies," I point out as I search for a broom or a mop or anything really that could help me remove the forest floor from the cabin. "Who owns this dump, anyway?"

"Hunter named Rufus," Dean replies. "He died... shit, I don't remember how long ago."

"Back when you had both of your eyes?" I guess.

"There abouts, yeah," Dean nods, looking over a tattered and half eaten couch. "I wouldn't sit on that."

"How is this place still here?" I ask. "If he died ten, fifteen years ago, how is this place still standing in Rufus's name? That doesn't make sense."

"Our lives don't make a hell of a lot of sense, do they?" Dean replies as he gives the place a solid walkthrough. "Abandoned houses have to come from somewhere, don't they? Anyway, I never said the property was still in Rufus's name."

"Who's house is it, then?" I wonder. "And why are we seriously still contemplating staying here?"

"I have no idea who owns the property now," Dean casually confesses. "And it's a free roof in just about the perfect neck of the woods."

"For what?"

"All the vics. They were munched on not too far from here."

"You're thinking about luring whatever's out there to us?" I half state, half question.

"Yahtzee," the older hunter replies, opening a closet door next to the kitchen. He extracts a broom and, when he tosses it to me, I can see at least half of the bristles have either fallen off or been chewed off. "Sweep some of this crap up. We've got some research to do and we're running out of daylight."

Dean and I set about making the place semi-livable, allowing a thick silence to fill the dilapidated structure. As I sweep the endless amount of leaves, dust and cobwebs from the cabin's wooden floors, I think about April. A few fond memories come to mind, but mostly I think about where I sent her when I separated her head from her shoulders. I'd like to think God changed his mind on where she'd end up after the hunter's funeral we gave her, but it's an unlikely prospect. From what I've heard, God abandoned us a long time ago and does nothing to rectify a good soul going to an awful place like Purgatory.

Wait a minute. If all monsters go to Purgatory...

"Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean replies without looking up from his own task of removing weapons from his duffel bag, all of which he places on the less than sturdy table.

"How sure are you that all monsters end up in Purgatory?"

"Pretty damn sure," he replies, carefully testing the edge of a long blade.

"Even the good ones?" I question with a hint of hope laced somewhere deep in my voice.

"Yep," he says as he closely eyes a pistol.

"So... when Garth dies..."

"I know it's not fair," Dean cuts me off, glancing over to me as he speaks. "But them's the breaks. It's where Garth'll go. It's where April went and, if you're not careful, it's where you'll end up too."

"I guess it's a good thing April wouldn't turn me," I mutter to myself, something that wasn't meant to be heard by Dean. Surprise! He does.

"What?" he half asks, half barks as his brows fold. "No. Hell no. Never actually _let_ something turn you. That's one of the top five rules of hunting. Hell, that's a rule for life in general. Why in God's name would you let her turn you?"

"Maybe you'd understand if you'd ever actually been in love," I mutter, pretending to sweep the spot I've been "sweeping" for the last five minutes.

"Ooh, I see," Dean says, laying his gun on the table with a heavy thud. "First of all, not that it's any of your business, but I have actually been there. I'm forty-fucking-five years old. You think a guy can live this long without feeling that at least once? Second, take it from me when I say you cannot change for anyone. Especially a chick." He shakes his head as he retrieves the flask from his jacket pocket. "Letting a vampire turn you for a broad," he mutters. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Hearing it come from Dean, I guess my idea to let April turn me was really dumb. It sounds even worse now that I know what eventually happens to every monster ever made. But what really gets me about his little rant isn't about my dumb ass seriously considering going fang for a woman. To me, Dean's always been this hard, cold hunter. He's spent his entire life on the road and if the last few months with him have been any indication as to what he's like, I guess I assumed he was too busy and too closed off to experience much beyond a one night stand. It's weird hearing that, once upon a time, he had something normal for a fleeting moment.

"What'd you do?" I ask, actually really curious to find out what dumb thing Dean did for a girl. Dean maintains his frown, but it becomes more pained as the memories are forced to appear before him.

"I pretended like I could leave the life," he reluctantly shares. "I pretended like I could just walk away and not be a hunter. And it was good for a while. Me, her, her kid. We were a family for a little bit, because I selfishly thought I could have something like that. But I could only pretend to be Mr. Suburbia for so long. Eventually the life caught up to me and it almost got them killed."

"What happened?" I gently ask.

"A few djinn," he quietly responds. "A vampire. Demons." Pause. "Take it from me, Ben. It's not worth changing yourself for someone else. Because eventually the truth comes out and you're not just hurting yourself, your hurting everyone involved."

I watch as Dean tilts his flask upside-down, draining the last of his whiskey from its canteen.

"What was her name?" I lay out one last question.

I'm not asking just for curiosity's sake. Ever since Dean's desperate plea to Cas and his sorrowful reveal of absolute loneliness, I've been trying to think of ways to help him see that he's not, in fact, alone. And I think - or, rather, I hope - that by getting him to actually share with me the past that clearly still pains him, he'll slowly realize he's not as alone as he thinks he is.

"Lisa," he tells me at last.

"That's my mom's name," I share with him as he looks away.

"Oh?" he says, his voice distant as he attempts to busy himself with his weapons. With his back turned to me, he lets out a long, heavy sigh and, for a moment, I think about putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going on a supply run," he tells me, digging his car keys from his jeans pocket as he swiftly pushes past me.

As quickly and as easily as he opened up, he shut himself back down.

At least I managed to crack him a little. I like to think it helped. I know it helped me forget April and how guilty I'll probably always feel for sending her to Purgatory.

Except now that I'm all alone, that's all I can think about again. Damn it all.


	12. Rugaru

_Three chapters in less than a week? You guys are lucky ducks. You know what really motivates me to write more frequently (beyond these fabulously detailed daydreams that prompt these ideas in the first place)? Reviews. And I must say, the reviews I got for the last chapter were fabulous. So a big **thank you** to all who took the time to review. Let that be a reminder. Reviews aren't just lovely, they boost my creative juices too.  
_

* * *

**_Whitefish, Montana - One Night Later_**

Fire. That's how you kill a rugaru. It's also how you kill a wendigo. Hell, if this thing turns out to be just a rogue bear with the munchies, I'd be willing to wager the family farm fire would take care of that problem too. The amount of literal fire power we're currently stocked with, we could set a whole family of grizzlies ablaze.

Not that I'd set a family of bears on fire. My mom used to read me these books when I was a kid, maybe yours did too. The Berenstain Bears. After that, no way could I kill a family of grizzlies. Unless, of course, they were eating people.

I wonder where bears go when they die?

"Hey, Dean."

The cabin is dark, save for the sole lamp that glows a soft, electric blue in the center of what used to be a kitchen. A hole in the roof provides a bit of starlight and my phone offers the occasional extra visual aid, but other than that, the cabin is pretty well consumed by night. Even still, I can see Dean roll his green eye as he sips whiskey from his seat across the table.

"What?" he grumbles in a low tone, clearly irritated by my constant barrage of questions.

"Where do you think bears go when they die?"

"Really?" he groans, shooting me an annoyed expression.

"What about rugarus? Do they go to Purgatory?"

"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters between clenched teeth as he runs a hand down his face. "Yes. Rugarus go to Purgatory. And wraiths. And shape shifters, and ghouls and every other mother fucking monster on this planet."

"What about gods?"

Dean glares at me, more than bothered by my consistent blathering. After a few moments of silence, however, his hard expression falls into mild thought.

"I'm not actually sure about gods," he slowly admits. "What's with you, anyway? You've been a chatty Cathy all damn day. More so than usual, anyway."

"Sorry," I mutter an apology. "I'm just... if I stop talking, I start thinking about April."

"Well knock it off," Dean instructs me. "It's distracting and we can't afford a slip up here."

"What else should I think about?"

"Rugarus, Ben," he groans. "You should be thinking about rugarus."

Right. The thing we're waiting for. After a little research, Dean concluded our monster de jour has to be rugaru since wendigos usually drag their victims off. Whatever's in Whitefish is just eating people.

We've been sitting in this cabin for at least three hours, waiting for the damn thing to show up. Each of us clutch what could only be classified as a homemade flame-thrower - fashioned from portable butane tanks and blowtorch nozzles - and a silver zippo. We each wear a hunter's knife at our hip and carry a pistol in our jacket pockets, just in case. Dean even moved the Impala a safe distance from the ramshackle abode in case monster isn't the only thing we end up igniting tonight. We're prepared. We're ready. All we're missing now is the rugaru.

I look up and out the hole in the roof, taking in the stars that glisten through the mountain forest. I wonder if there are stars in Purgatory?

I know that I technically did the right thing, killing April. She was right, she had to go and I was the one who had to send her away. Still, every time I think about her, this knot at the pit of my stomach tightens. It makes me a little sick knowing where she ended up. It would even if I had let Dean do it for me.

Then again, would Hell really be a better place to end up?

It's not fair, April going to Purgatory. She was a good person. She saved people and didn't ask for anything in return. She was in the middle of saving people the moment her soul was condemned to that wretched place and she only existed as a "monster" for a single month. Okay, yes, she killed a few people, but that wasn't her fault. That wasn't her. It's not fair she had to go to Purgatory.

Where is God?

Does it even matter what I'm doing? Life's not fair, everybody knows that. Why does the afterlife have to be so unfair, too?

Dean hits me hard on the arm and I realize he's been talking to me.

"What?" I blink and he rolls his eye.

"Get your head in the game, man," he harshly instructs me. "I'm not kidding. We cannot afford any fuck ups here, you got that?"

"Yes sir," I reply, saluting him with two fingers, a gesture that makes him frown.

"This isn't a game," he growls. "Now get your head out of your ass or go sit in the car." He pauses to let out a long sigh in an effort to ease his temper. "We've got company, and I don't think it's the natural kind."

"Good," I say, rising to my feet. "I only hunt the supernatural kind."

"I swear to god..." I hear Dean mutter under his breath, shaking his head. "You check the back. I'll check out front."

Silently I do as I'm told. I tiptoe to the back of the cabin and cautiously peer through one of the shattered windows. Clear to the left. Clear to the right. No monster. No nothing, actually.

I glance back at Dean who cautiously stands less than a foot beyond the front door. He glances left, then right. Just when I think he's about to report a false alarm, he freezes. Even in the dark I can tell his ears have picked up something his eye did not.

"Shit," he mutters as he hangs his head and gradually lifts the butane tank clutched in his right hand. His left hand slowly flicks his zippo open as he prepares to light his torch at the drop of a hat.

But he's too late. From his left, it comes in swinging and knocks Dean to the ground with a single swoop. A monster who, from where I'm standing, looks just like a pale, dark haired man.

The man - or monster, rather - sniffs the air before turning to look at me. A low, vicious growl escapes his throat as his lips curl back in a snarl that exposes the mouth full of jagged teeth that seems pretty standard amongst many supernatural creatures. And then he smiles.

My brain screams at my legs to _run_, but my eyes see no place to go. The only way out is currently being blocked by a rugaru. Which, really, is something I should be focusing on fighting, not trying to run from. I'm a hunter for God's sake.

The rugaru pushes through the threshold of the door at a swift pace that seems almost impossible, heading straight for me. I flick my zippo to ignite my torch. When nothing happens beyond the small, yellow flame on my lighter, a wave of nausea washes over me.

Of course it's not going to light. I never cranked the butane on. There's not a single drop of gas emitting from my tank. And, given how quickly the creature descends upon me, there's no time to rectify this oversight.

So I throw the tank at him. I don't know why, but I do. I replace my lighter with the pistol, getting just enough time to fire off a single, desperate shot that seemingly completely misses the monster.

Before I can blink, I'm laying on the floor with a splitting headache. My arms are pinned down with such a force it feels like they're going to break through the wooden slats beneath me. Beyond the stars that explode across my field of vision, I can see the rugaru who sits on my chest. He snarls as he snaps his teeth, leaning closer and closer with each passing second. Like he's going to eat my face.

Shit. He's going to eat my face.

I attempt to move my arms, but it's no use. Dean wasn't kidding when he said these things were strong. I flail my legs, attempt to sit up. I do anything I can think of to get this bastard to at least loose his balance, but he doesn't flinch. He's not just strong as hell, he's as heavy as a boulder.

It's getting hard to breathe.

The rugaru leans in close, nearly pressing his nose to my face. It's now that I can see his red eyes and the dark veins that run just beneath his pale, wormy and leathery flesh.

This is the worst possible thing to see before I die.

I wonder where my reaper will take me? Was I a good enough boy to get into heaven? Did I sin just the right amount of times to get a one-way ticket to Hell? Or do I have too much unfinished business and I'll end up roaming between the veil for a hundred years until I get angry and vengeful and another hunter has to give me the final send off?

The rugaru lets out a wild hiss as his jaws open so wide they almost unhinge. He leans in to take a nice big chuck out of my throat...

Adios, cruel world.

The sound of a single gunshot rings out. The rugaru hisses again, but this time not because he's about to devour my flesh, but because he's been shot in the shoulder. A second shot rings out as a bullet enters the monster's neck. A third penetrates his arm.

The creature hisses angrily as his head snaps up and his gaze falls to the figure standing in the doorway. Dean. He aims his pistol and squeezes the trigger, sending a bullet right into the monster's skull. Which, really, just pisses the thing off even more.

Luckily for me, it also distracts him.

The creature scrambles off my chest, forgetting me almost entirely as he lets loose an intimidating roar and advances on Dean. My hands fly to my throat to check the extent of the damage. Nothing but solid, unbroken flesh. He didn't bite me.

Oh, thank God. Thank Odin. Thank Artemis and Zeus and Ra and every god that ever existed. But, above all, thank Dean Winchester.

That's the closest to death I've ever personally been, and my body is well aware of it. My heart races within my chest and my limbs, though finally free to wave around and stand and hold weapons, are numb from shock. For now, I find myself incapable of doing much beyond watching the rugaru rush the one-eyed hunter at full speed.

Dean is, of course, completely ready for the creature. He drops his gun and waits for the perfect moment, waits for the flesh-eating monster to get close enough to him. And, when that perfect moment arrives, Dean lights his torch.

The rugaru walks right into the flames. He was moving too fast to avoid it. He screams and cries, a sound almost more chilling than having his red eyes stare coldly into yours mere inches from your own face. The rugaru falls to the ground with a sickening thud just outside the cabin and begins to roll, but it's no use. Dean's there with his fire aimed directly at him, and that's where he keeps the blaze until the monster falls silent and still.

Gradually my body regains enough mobility and sensation for me to climb back to my feet. I collect my fallen gun as I amble with a slight limp towards the doorway where I pause to watch Dean extinguish his torch. I eye the monster that smolders at his feet, burned to a nice, even black crisp.

I should feel disappointed in myself for my epic fail, and I kind of do. This was about the last thing I wanted Dean to see and it probably set me back a bit as far as proving myself as a hunter. But holy shit, I'm alive. Dean saved my bacon and that's honestly all that really matters to me.

"So..." I begin once we're positive the monster is long gone from this world. "That's a rugaru, huh?"

It happens almost as quickly as the creature had pinned me to the floor. Dean's got me shoved up against the cabin wall with a fury in his face I find equally as terrifying as having a rugaru sitting on your chest.

"What did I tell you?!" he rages with a bark.

I open my mouth to make what would probably be a smart-ass remark, something like "to think about rugarus", but I think better of it. Because right now I'm almost positive Dean's going to rip my head off.

"No fuck ups," he loudly reminds me. "I told you to pull your head out of your ass and not to fuck up."

Technically he told me we can't afford fuck ups, but now doesn't seem like a good time to point that out.

"You almost got yourself killed in there," he states, backing off just a smidgen. As he moves a step away, I can see the blood glistening on his scalp, wetting down a spot of hair on the right side of his head. The rugaru must have knocked him down harder than I realized.

"Yeah," I agree, slowly nodding. "You were right about rugarus. Son of a bitch was strong."

"There's no reason he should have even gotten that close," Dean snaps. "What happened to your fire?"

"I... forgot to crank the butane on..." I begrudgingly admit.

"You let yourself get distracted," he says. "Again."

A thick and uncomfortable silence falls as Dean angrily begins to pace in slow, wide circles in front of the cabin. He scratches at the stubble that's taken over his chin as he carefully thinks about what he's going to say next. I'm surprised he hasn't...

Hup, there's the flask.

"I'm sorry," I quietly and shamefully apologize. He pauses in his pacing long enough to glare at me.

"You bet your ass you're sorry," he says.

"I am," I insist. "That was dumb and it won't happen again, I swear. No need to get all pissy about it."

This only seems to light a deeper rage from within.

"You have no idea..." he begins and then, just as I think I'm really going to get it, he trails off and swallows whatever emotion I've managed to subject him to. "As long as you ride with me, you're my responsibility," he says with a forced calmness. "But you have your own responsibilities in this job. And I'm not..." Pause. Hard swallow. "I'm not gonna bury you, Ben. I'm not. And I'm not gonna be the one to tell your mom you got killed on the job. If you can't shape up and do the job right, I'm sending you home."

He turns his back to me, slowly walking towards the Impala as he takes a sip from his flask.

I frown.

"I got in this life without you," I angrily call after him. "You can't make me get out."

"Wanna bet?" he calls back with a firm grumble, not bothering to face me.

I think what bothers me the most about Dean pulling the "authority figure" card is how eerily natural it feels. Not because I've idolized him from a far for so long or even because he's the veteran hunter in this partnership. It's something else that I can't quite put my finger on, but it's there and it certainly enhances the shame I feel for letting Dean down.

Never again. I won't let this happen again. I swear, Dean. I won't.


	13. Dragon Tales, Part I

_Welcome back, folks! I must apologize for the prolonged and unintentional hiatus that just took place. Don't you hate it when real life interferes with the fake life you're trying to live out in your head?_

* * *

**_Between Here & There_**

For a few days, Dean doesn't say much to me. He sits sullenly behind the wheel of his Impala, squinting at the road that stretches out in front of us. It's day three when I start wondering if he's going to drop me off at my car or, worse, my mother's house.

He's obviously still pissed about me almost getting eaten by a monster. And if this silence has done anything, it's given me time to think about how I'm kind of mad at him, too. I mean, he hasn't given me a lot of anything but grief this whole time. He hasn't even said "good job" or "nice try" once. I know I'm not perfect, but it gets a little irritating, trying to win his approval.

Then again, I'm a little mad at myself, too. I should have - hell, I _did_ - know better than to think Dean would become the dad I never had. Yet, for some reason, I've kept thinking that any minute he's going to drop the surly, drunken attitude and really take me under his wing. It's probably because I've looked up to him from afar for so long, in my head he was already my makeshift father. At the same time, though, I've got this weird feeling it's something else entirely. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

Sometime close to sunset Dean gets a call from another hunter. It's difficult for me to make out what the conversation is, since the extent of Dean's end of it is a bunch of "yep", "uh-huh" and "sure". When he hangs up, he keeps on driving without a single word to me.

The next intersection we come to, he takes a lengthy pause. He gives the left a good glance, then the right, then dead ahead as he ponders our direction with a great consideration. And just when it looks like he's going to pull ahead, he puts the Impala in park.

"There's a potential case in Charleston," he states, glancing at me.

"Good thing we've been heading East then," I comment and he sighs.

"I'm not so sure you should come with me on this one," Dean lays out with a mildly gentle tone what I've feared would be coming. "If it's what I think it is, the thing down there isn't a monster for amateurs."

Amateur? Ouch.

"Considering how you handled the rugaru back there, I can't say I'm real confident you can take this next one," he goes on, dishing out another blow to my already lowered self-esteem.

"Look, I screwed up," I admit. "And I feel really bad about that. But you can't honestly tell me you've never screwed up before."

He considers this, but I can tell I'm a long way away from changing his mind.

"You have to give me another chance," I beg. "I can handle whatever it is in Charleston, I swear." Pause. "Or you can drop me off somewhere and I'll just go hunting by myself."

Dean frowns as I point out that kicking me out of the Impala doesn't mean kicking me out of the life.

"Please, Dean," I go on after a few minutes of thoughtful silence have passed. "Take me with you. I can't get better at this if you won't let me practice."

With a deep sigh, Dean begrudgingly returns the idling car to drive and turns right.

"Thanks," I say as he fishes out his flask.

"Don't thank me yet," he grumbles between sips. "This is your last chance, you got it? You screw this one up, I'm taking you home."

I gulp as I picture how that might go. How my mom would react to me standing on the front step with a one eyed, grizzled man holding my ear between two fingers and ranting about how her son has been hunting monsters. I could see her calling the cops on Dean, or the boys at the funny farm. Even Jim, my step-dad, would find it all too bizarre, which is saying something. Jim's not the most normal person I've ever met.

"Got it," I slowly say. "So... what's in Charleston?"

"Something's been stealing a shit ton of gold," he reveals. "An enormous, bat-like creature has been spotted near each robbery."

"Something's stealing gold?" I repeat. "Just gold? No silver or diamonds?"

"Just gold," Dean confirms. "And virgins."

Probably not a shifter, then. Shifters take anything and everything, minus virgins. Dwarves? Probably not a dwarf, they're pretty benign as far as supernatural beings go. What else likes gold? And is associated with, or is, a giant bat? And likes virgins? The word "god" comes to mind, but I'm having a hard time coming up with which pagan deity it could be.

"I'm stumped," I finally give up. "What do you think it is?"

For a minute, Dean just keeps his eye on the road ahead of him. His lips curve into a small smile he attempts to stifle, due to the serious nature of the monster. Or the fact that he's Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester doesn't smile much these days.

"A dragon," he reveals at last, and I can't tell if he's serious or joking.

"A... dragon?" I repeat with a short chuckle. "You're kidding me, right?"

Dean gives me a serious glance as my jaw drops.

"Dragons are a thing?" I question, somewhat baffled by the prospect.

"They weren't for a long time," Dean tells me, his smile vanishing completely as his expression returns to business. "Eve brought some back a while ago. They're pretty rare, which is good considering there's only about four weapons on the planet that'll actually kill them."

"Oh, good," I mutter with a sarcastic breath. "Where are we going to get a weapon more rare than the monster?"

"I've got one in the trunk."

Of course he does.

xXxXxXx

**_Charleston, South Carolina_**

"We're supposed to kill a dragon with _this_?"

I hold up an ancient and broken sword, eyeing it with a grave doubt.

"I feel like rolling a twelve sided die at it would be just as effective."

Dean snatches the busted blade with haste.

"I'd like to see you pull a sword out of stone," he tells me defensively, carefully eyeing the weapon that's been sitting in the back of his stockpile for over a decade. "Besides, the last dragons I fought looked like humans. Really strong humans with hot hands, but humans none the less."

"Hot hands..." I echo with wonder before putting it together. "Right, the dragon thing. So they're kind of like those mutates from the third Iron Man movie?"

"Yeah..." Dean says with a cocked brow. "Sure. Anyway, the only thing that kills a dragon is a weapon forged with dragon blood."

Hence the shitty little pig poker he holds loosely in his grip, I'm guessing.

"And there's only four of them in existence?" I question and Dean nods.

"Yep," he nods, gently pulling the trunk closed.

"The other three wouldn't happen to be as easily accessible, would they?" I ask and Dean rolls his eye.

"If they were, do you think I'd be charging into a dragon's lair with this?" is how he responds, holding the broken sword up for me to see. "If you'd rather spend your time hunting down Excalibur, I'm sure I can manage on my own..."

"No, no," I shake my head before I realize what Dean just said. "Wait... Excalibur? Really?"

"Apparently," he shrugs. "Come on. Let's get this over with. TCM is running a Clint Eastwood marathon today, I wanna get back to the room before _The Outlaw Josey Wales_ comes on."

A loud, short "huh" pushes through my chest and out my lips at his comment, causing the older hunter to cock a brow at me.

"What?" he wants to know and I shrug.

"Nothing," I shake my head. "It's just... it's kind of like all this is just one long chore to you now."

"Well it is a job," Dean points out. "And it's not exactly a high paying one either. The faster we can take a monster out the better."

"Right," I agree. "I'm just saying, when I go hunting, that's what I'm doing for the night, you know?"

"I do," he nods as he motions for me to follow him, taking the lead to the sewer system of Charleston. "Believe it or not, I remember those days. I'm not _that_ old."

"So this is all just boring to you now?" I wonder as I follow him into the dark, dank tunnels that run beneath the historical city.

"Boring, monotonous, old," he lists. "Exhausting. Pick a word. They all fit."

Despite the fact I've grown more than accustom to Dean and his surly demeanor, this kind of surprises me. These few months I've spent with him, I've taken his rough and sullen ways as being a weathered veteran. He is definitely weathered, but mostly, he's just sick of it.

"So... why are you still doing this, then?" I ask as we travel the sewers with a broken dragon sword and a pair of flash lights to illuminate our path.

"What else am I supposed to do?" he answers my question with a rhetorical question of his own. "I've gotta do something..."

His last sentence feels incomplete. Like the words "while I'm still alive" are missing. Or maybe "until I die".

It hits me that maybe, just maybe, he's not doing this because it's the only thing he knows (because it's not). He's not here because he can't, as he claims, escape the life. He's here because he has no one left and it's the quickest way he can think of to get killed without actually killing himself.

I swallow past a lump in my throat. I wonder if, someday, I'll be just like Dean.

"Just wait," he speaks softly, as if he were reading my mind. "You stick around the life long enough, you won't be so different from me."

What else can I do, though? I'm already in. I know about these creatures and I know how to kill them. What kind of person would I be if I chose to save my sanity over the lives of hundreds of people?

Well, I'm not bitter yet. And Dean's not completely alone. I just have to help him see that.

_Note to self: help Dean find his angel after we slay the dragon._

That's the weirdest sentence that's ever popped into my head.

* * *

_Well, that got a little more depressing than I had intended. I'd say "my bad", but let's be honest. If Dean makes it to 45, he's not going to be a ray of sunshine._

_Also, "mutate" is Marvel's term for people who were not born mutated but develop/experience some type of genetic mutation later in life. Like the Hulk and Captain America. Versus mutants who, in the Marvel universe, are born with a genetic mutation, like Wolverine and Magneto._

_In case you were wondering._

_God I'm a nerd._


	14. Dragon Tales, Part II

_**Charleston, South Carolina**_

The entire sewer system. We wandered the stench filled, rancid tunnels of the city in its entirety and came up with nothing. Not a scrap of gold, a scale or a single virgin (or anyone else for that matter). I'm going to smell like sewage for days.

I have to admit, I never smelled so exotic before I started hunting with Dean. First goats, now this. Maybe next time we can roll around a pile of fish guts and have flocks of seagulls on our ass for days.

Seriously though, I've taken five showers in the last twenty-four hours and I'm still feeling unclean and disease ridden, even in a fresh pair of blue jeans and a brand new Pink Floyd t-shirt. The smell obviously doesn't bother Dean nearly as much as me. He's only taken one shower and changed once.

Granted, Dean's pretty preoccupied with figuring out where our dragon might be hiding. By "preoccupied" I mean completely consumed in frustration. It's clear by the way he pours over police reports and city maps he hasn't had to put this much effort into leg work in years.

I'm personally looking forward to the day I'm pro enough to forgo the legwork process myself. When it all just becomes instinct. When I'm like Dean - a less alcohol dependent version of him, anyway.

"You done primping?" he questions with a complete lack of amusement as I wander from the still steamy bathroom towards my bed.

"Ha ha," I return dryly, running a hand through my damp, dark hair before pulling a blue plaid button down shirt over my arms.

"I'm starting to worry you're a germaphobe," he comments without looking up from a map, to which I roll my eyes. "Check the internet, would you? See if there are any caves in the area."

"I did," I tell him with a small sigh. "Twice."

His eye leaves the map before him long enough to give me an unenthusiastic look, wordlessly telling me to check again. I let out a soft, inaudible moan as I trudge to the motel desk and open my laptop. My web search this time yields the exact same results as the first two attempts.

"Seriously, dude," I say after an hour of pointless and redundant research. "There's a tunnel in Walhalla, which is literally on the opposite end of the state. That's it." I pause as Dean lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "I did a search on abandoned buildings, too," I continue, hoping to impress him with the additional research I managed to conduct without him having to ask. Even if what I found won't help our case. "There aren't a lot anymore. Ever since the economic recovery and the Abandoned Building Revitalization act of 2013, most abandoned places were either torn down or fixed up."

"That's not very helpful," Dean mutters with annoyance.

"Maybe it's not a dragon," I suggest, trying to ignore the disappointing fact my extra efforts have gone unnoticed. "The area's not real conducive for them, considering the lore."

"Six jewelry stores have been robbed of gold in the last two weeks," Dean speaks with an aggravated tone. "And five young women from the same abstinence club are missing. It's a dragon."

"Okay," I say, finding myself irritated by Dean's attitude. "What if it's an abnormal dragon. You said they look like people sometimes, right? What if it's hanging out in a regular, run of the mill house?"

"That's starting to look like what's going on," Dean agrees with my theory. "That still doesn't help where we find the damn thing." He pauses to stretch and take a sip of whiskey. "Suit up," he tells me after a moment of thought. "We're going fed on this one."

xXxXxXx

Agents McCartney (Dean) and King (Ben, aka me) make an appearance at the local cop shop where we don't gather anything more than I had already managed to hack into. The jewelry shops that had been robbed aren't much help either. Even with the interesting footage they managed to catch on candid camera (by which I mean their security cameras), it really only confirms that we're hunting a dragon (or a big ass black blur that kind of looks like a massive bat with a tail if you pause the recordings at just the right moments).

Which leaves us with one place left to check...

"I hate abstinence groups," Dean shudders as we stroll up the cracked path to the modest looking Methodist church.

"To each their own," I reply as I straighten my red and navy striped tie before reaching for the front door handles. "Although, if hunting has taught me anything, it's that virginity is a risky lifestyle."

"No shit," Dean agrees.

We wander the church which, considering the size, doesn't take long. Within five minutes we've tracked down the small basement room where the abstinence club meets. We also find Cindy, the young, thin blonde woman who claims to be the "assistant director" of the group.

"It's so tragic," she dramatically wails at us when we ask her about her missing friends, all the while batting her lashes at me with a certain hunger in her eyes. "I can't believe anyone would take them. They're all such wonderful, sweet girls."

"You didn't happen to see who took them, did you?" Dean questions, to which she shakes her head.

"No," she tells us as she leans into me, rubbing her breasts against my shoulder as she drapes her arms around my neck for comfort. "It's all just so... so..."

"Tragic?" I fill her sentence for her. She bats a pair of big, hazel puppy eyes at me as her lips form a sad pout.

"Yes," she nods, and I feel her fingers gently caress the back of my head.

I'm starting to wonder how abstinent she really is.

I give Dean a silent "help me" look, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy studying Cindy.

"When was the last time you saw any of your friends?" he presses her for details, hoping to get more than alligator tears out of her. "School? Work?"

"I don't work," she mildly shakes her head as a finger suggestively twists itself around a tuff of my dark hair. "I saw them here. We had discussed getting together at my place, but they never showed up."

I'm not going to lie, Cindy's a looker. But the way she's pressing herself against me, a complete stranger, is making me really uncomfortable. Enough to almost distract me from how suspicious this is all getting.

Luckily for us, Dean is completely distraction free.

"That's a nice necklace," he compliments the thick, long gold chain that dangles from around her neck. "I've been looking for one just like it for my wife. Where'd you get it?"

"Hmm?" Cindy says as she gradually releases me from her clutches. "Oh, this? My boyfriend gave it to me."

As she moves her hand away from the back of my head I can hear the distinct sound of multiple bracelets clanking nosily against each other. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimmer of gold as she finally separates herself from me and I breath a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes to us. "I wish I could be more help, but that's really all I know. If you don't mind, I've got a class in twenty minuets."

"No problem," Dean shakes his head, giving her a faux smile. "Thanks for your time anyway."

We remain silent until we reach the Impala, well away from hearing range.

"That wasn't suspicious," I mutter with a breath of sarcasm. "I think she's up to something."

"You think?" Dean returns with his own note of sarcasm. "That was way too much gold for a jobless college student."

"That was a lot of personal space invasion for a virgin, too," I add. "You think she's the droid we're looking for?"

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" he says with a nod, his eye fashioned to the church doors.

"Should we..." I begin, but trail off as I realize how ridiculous what I was about to suggest would sound.

_Should we charge into a church with a broken sword and stab the assistant director of the abstinence club?_

"We'll follow her," Dean tells me. "Just to be sure." He pauses to take a sip from his flask. "I'm not one for religion, but, outside of demons, I still feel kind of weird killing things in a church."

Rightly so.

xXxXxXx

"I hate to assume to know a person's situation, but I'm thinking that house looks a little nice for a college kid."

Dean nods his head in agreement as we both stare at the McMansion he's parked his Impala across the street from.

Long story short, we got bored waiting for Cindy to get out of class, so we dug up what we could on Miss Long and decided to stake out her house, which, by the way, looks nothing like a cave.

"You think her boyfriend bought it for her?" I ponder as Dean glances through his binoculars.

"Sure," he shrugs. "If her boyfriend is Bill freaking Gates."

The car fills with silence as Dean and I scope out the house. Which has to look creepy. Two dudes in a muscle car with binoculars, staring intently at a house that's occupied by a single female and no one else.

The thought makes me mildly self conscious, enough to prompt me to lower my spy ware.

I'm trying really hard to focus this time, I am. I've managed to (temporarily) put April at the back of my mind and I've done a decent job convincing myself not to take Crowley's words seriously. This is my last chance to prove to Dean I'm worthy of hunting and I'm worthy of a spot in his Impala. My head has to be in the game this time, I know.

So, of course, there's something on my mind beyond dragons. This time the thing I'm thinking about is sitting less than a foot away from me.

"Hey, Dean," I slowly begin, not entirely certain if I should bring this up, well, ever, but especially now. "Listen. I know this sounds kind of random but..." Deep breath. Exhale. "If you ever need someone to talk to about... stuff... I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

Slowly, Dean puts his binoculars down and turns his head to face me, his brows folded.

"Thanks Dr. Phil," he responds with a note of sarcasm, clearly less than thrilled about my sincere offer. "I'll keep that in mind. Remind me to stop at the store later so we can pick up some tampons for you."

I should have suspected his response might have been something along those lines. It doesn't make what I said any less sincere.

"Come on," he tells me, absently setting his binoculars on the seat between us. "Let's get a better look."

I do as I'm told, following Dean and his broken sword up the front lawn and around the side, peering into windows as we walk. The inside of the house, from what we can tell, seems pretty normal. Neat, clean, and bright.

Now _I'm_ getting frustrated. How is it possible we can track down things like ghosts - which are invisible more often than not - with an incredible ease, but a giant freaking dragon we can't find to save our lives?

Just as I'm about to question how real dragons actually are, something out of place catches my eye.

"Dean," I softly call, motioning to the small basement window. "Check it out."

Dean's eye wanders towards the ground and he lets out a soft "huh" when he sees what I see.

The basement windows are black. And not because some one's drawn black curtains. They're literally black. All of them.

"Either someone's got a grow room, or we've found a dragon's lair," Dean says with a mild excitement in his voice.

I hold the sword as Dean puts his lock pick tools to good use on the back patio door. Within minutes we're slipping silently inside, cautiously inviting ourselves to take a look around. We find the basement door and use our flashlights to light our way down, choosing not to flick the lights on just in case.

I'm not going to lie, what we find reinstates frustration pretty quickly.

"It's just a basement," I say with a deflated breath.

Really. That's all it is. I mean, it's a nice basement. Well insulated, fairly clean as far as basements go and stocked with storage boxes marked with things like "X-Mas" and "photo albums". One of the walls holds a collection of nice and fairly new looking tools.

"Shit," Dean mutters as he squints his eye, shining his light in every nook and cranny.

"Maybe she's just a shifter, man," I suggest with a long sigh. "And the missing girls are being raptured or something." I pause as my flashlight hits something askew, something hanging from one of the cardboard boxes neatly stacked along the left wall. I inch closer, keenly studying it. Whatever it is, it looks dry and almost skeletal. Like something I've seen somewhere, but different.

"Is that..." I begin, leaning close to really study it. "Is that skin?" I poke it, discovering it is, indeed, dry. "I've never seen shifter skin like this before."

"That's not shifter skin," Dean tells me. "That's dragon skin."

Now that he says it, it is kind of obvious.

"Oh, good," I say with a hint of sarcasm. "Another monster that sheds-"

"Shh!" Dean silences me, suddenly glancing intently around the basement. "Did you hear that?" he asks in a whispered tone.

For a moment we remain silent, listening for whatever it was Dean heard.

And then I hear it.

"Voices?" I half guess, half state and Dean nods. "It sounds like they're coming from the walls."

"Yes it does," Dean agrees, switching his flashlight off. "Turn your light off."

I do as I'm told, which leaves us in complete and utter darkness. My eyes search the now pitch black basement before falling to a bare, stone wall. A small stream of light trickles from a small slit between the cement floor and the wall.

I nudge Dean on the shoulder, motioning towards the small stream of light. It takes him about a second to see what I'm pointing to and another second to react. Swiftly he dashes to the spot and places his ear against the wall.

"They're coming from behind here," he tells me as he places his hand at the source of the light. "I think this is a door."

He knocks, taps and presses against the wall before he puts all his weight into it with his left shoulder. As he does, the door gradually opens with a loud groan.

This second, hidden room is much larger than the part of the basement we had just come from, but more bare. A few beds sit along one of the cold stone walls and a toilet sits not too far from them, but that's about it.

Oh, and the five young women who stare at us with wide, terrified eyes.

"Is this... is this a dungeon?" I question as I stare at the shackles the women wear around their wrists and ankles. "I always wanted to play Dungeons and Dragons."

"Not an appropriate time for jokes," Dean cooly points out as we make our way into the room.

"Right," I mutter as the girls fearfully back away from us. "Don't worry ladies, we're here to rescue you."

They glance between each other with hesitation but allow us to approach.

"Damn it," Dean curses as he studies the shackles. "They've been welded. Ben, go see if there are any bolt cutters on the tool bench. We can at least make it easy for them to walk out of here."

I do as I'm told, returning to the basement's first section where I use my flashlight to illuminate the rows of hanging tools. A soft shuffling approaches from behind as I search and I sigh. I can't believe Dean can't trust me enough to look for a tool by myself.

"Don't just stand there," I call back to him. "Help me find some cutters so we can get these girls out of here."

No response.

Oh...

Shit.

Slowly, I turn to face a tall, dark haired gentleman who glares down at me, completely unamused he's caught me rooting through his tool collection.

"FBI?" I attempt, holding my badge up for him to see.

"No, I don't think so," he speaks, shaking his head as he does so. "I think you and your friend are hunters."

"Let me guess," I say with a defeated breath. "You're Smaug?"

Before I can blink, his right hand lashes out and grabs me by the wrist with a firm grasp that's almost painful.

Wait, no. This is painful. Hot, like...

Oh, he's burning me.

"A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

* * *

_Cliffhanger! Yes, I'm evil._

_This was getting a little lengthy so I had to chop it up into extra parts this time. Hopefully I will have part three up for you by the end of the week, but I make no promises. Real life has decided I'm spending too much time in fantasy land and has been trying to hold me down. Stupid reality._


	15. Dragon Tales, Part III

_**Still Charleston, South Carolina**_

Smaug - or whatever his name is - doesn't kill me. Not on the spot, anyway. Instead he marches me back into the "dungeon", pinning my arms behind my back with a brute force as we walk.

Sometimes monsters can be really dumb. Like this guy. He had a chance to burn me alive and be done with me. Instead he's bringing me to a Winchester.

And I'm going to let him. Because I, unlike some people in this room, am not an idiot.

The ladies see us coming and fearfully react, backing away as they did when Dean and I first arrived. Dean, however, is too busy fussing with a brunette's shackles to take much notice.

"Sounds like Cindy's not our dragon after all," Dean tells him, his back turned to me and the fire breather.

"Yeah, I kind of put that one together," I mutter with a mild embarrassment in my tone.

Dean's head comes up before he slowly turns around. When he sees I've returned with hostile company, he grabs the sword he'd laid upon the hard ground and stands ready to strike. When the dragon sees this, he unleashes a loud, hearty "haw haw" that rises from his gut.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" he questions with amusement.

"Kill you," Dean replies simply.

"I'd like to see you try," the dragon boasts with confidence, clearly unaware the broken blade was forged with the blood of his kind.

"Okay," Dean shrugs and begins to charge the man looking beast.

"What is going on in here!?"

The sharp shriek stops Dean in his tracks and all eyes fall upon Cindy, who now stands in the open doorway with her hands on her hips and a cross look plastered on her face.

"You know you've got a dragon keeping virgins locked in your basement?" I question as I attempt to struggle free from Smaug's grip.

The dragon responds to this by burning me again.

"What?" Cindy questions, her face nothing short of serious. Which lasts for about five seconds. That's when the menacing smile crosses her lips. "Of course I knew."

"Don't tell me," Dean says, the sword relaxing a bit as he speaks. "Your dating a monster."

"He's _not_ a monster," Cindy defends. "He's a rare, misunderstood and beautiful being." She pauses as her brows fold in confusion. "Since when does the FBI chase down dragons, anyway?"

"They're not FBI," the dragon informs his mortal girlfriend. "They're hunters."

"I should have known," Cindy mutters, looking Dean over. "An agent with an eye-patch did seem a little out of place."

"The co-leader of an abstinence group rubbing up on my partner wasn't exactly subtle either," Dean points out, causing Cindy's face to fall. "What's your angle, anyway? Or are you seriously just helping him kidnap your friends for gold?"

"I'll admit, the gold is nice," she admits, slowly pacing as she gives us the typical villain reveal. "But it's so much more than that. We're in love. He's going to turn me into a dragon and we're going to move to Chicago where hunters will never bother us again."

Dean snickers at this. I can't see him, but I'm almost positive the dragon is flushing. I might be new to the "dragons are real" concept, but even I know what's wrong with that sentence.

Cindy glances between the two with a look of confusion on her face as Dean stifles a potentially uproarious laughter and Smaug's grip on me becomes slack.

"What?" she questions, her thin brows furrowing. "Why is that funny?"

Now it's my turn to snicker.

"What?!" she demands angrily, impatiently folding her arms across her chest.

"I just found out dragons exist," I begin to explain when no one else jumps on the opportunity. "But even I know that's not how dragons are made."

Cindy's face quickly falls from anger to confusion to disappointment.

"What... what do you mean?" she has to ask, something that makes me realize the dragon isn't as stupid as he seems.

"There are some monsters that can turn a regular person like you and me into them," I inform her. "Werewolves, vampires - your standard horrors. Other monsters are born through the act of reproduction. Monsters like shape shifters, djinn and, oh, I don't know, dragons."

Realization strikes Cindy and it's hard to miss the look of betrayal that settles.

"What?" she whispers as Dean shakes his head.

"You've been helping your boyfriend steal virgins and you never asked him why?" he questions.

Cindy blinks over at the frightened women huddled in a corner, the very women she willingly helped abduct.

"Dragons don't eat virgins," Dean points out. "They're not gods. They-"

"Mate with them," Cindy finishes his sentence in a voice barely above a whisper. "God, I'm an idiot."

"That would be an understatement," I mutter as Cindy shoots me - or maybe Smaug - a dirty look.

"How could you lie to me like that?" she asks him as tears well in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, baby," the dragon begins the awkward apology you see on TV shows like Maury when the cheating boyfriend is confronted by his redneck girlfriend in front of a studio audience. "I didn't think you'd help me if you knew the truth. It's not like there are a lot of places for me to hide around here."

"You used me!?" Cindy accuses with a shrill shriek in her voice. "I thought you loved me!"

"I do!" the dragon insists as his grip becomes even more relaxed.

Generally, I'm not a fan of dramatic quarrels and lovers spats. But I'm really loving this one. Because this time I'm not the one whose too distracted.

With every ounce of strength I can summon, I give my arms a mighty jerk. I slip free from the dragon's grasp before giving him a hearty kick in the stomach for good measure to assure my freedom. Smaug staggers slightly as I back myself towards Dean, brandishing my pistol as I do so.

The dragon gives us a cold, bitter stare as a fire ignites in his eyes.

"You're dead!" he growls at us, his hands turning a bright shade of hot orange as he spits the threat.

"Not today, Smaug," I shake my head, keeping my gun aimed directly at him.

"My name isn't Smaug!" he roars in aggravation.

"I don't really care what your name is," I tell him, keeping a calm, unwavering voice. "Just don't take another step."

"Or what?" he says with an eye roll. "You'll shoot me?"

"Shoot you, stab you," I reply. "Either way, we're the ones holding weapons. All you have are hot hands."

"Your pathetic weapons can't kill me," he insists with a prideful tone and a smug smile.

"Mine can't," I easily admit. "Tell me though, how fast can a dragon run with a bullet in his knee cap?"

I don't give him long to ponder my rhetorical question. He has enough time to let a worried look of confusion cross his face before my index finger pulls the trigger. Less than a single second later, blood spurts from his left kneecap and the dragon collapses to the floor with an agonizing howl.

Quite proud of myself for applying a Dean taught lesson to my "last chance" hunt, I give my mentor a quick glance to gauge his reaction. He seems mildly impressed, but not enough to praise me. Instead, he twirls the broken sword around in his right hand.

"That's not gonna keep him down for long," he comments.

"It's a good thing I packed more than one bullet then," I respond, keeping my gun aimed at the dragon. Dean gives a short, agreeable head nod as he gives the blade another showy swing.

"Nooooo!" Cindy shrieks, charging me at a rapid rate.

She might be pissed her boyfriend lied to her - horrifically, I might add - but she still doesn't want us to kill him.

So she lunges at me with open arms with every intention of tackling me. Considering her small size and my taller, more muscular structure, she falls short of her goal. Instead of bringing me to the ground, she clings to my back like a cute, blonde monkey. It does make it difficult to maintain balance and ruin my aim, but it doesn't bring me down.

Dean takes this opportunity to rush the dragon, the broken sword steady in his grasp as he swiftly nears the beast. Like a warrior or knight of old, Dean raises his weapon above his head before bringing it down with a fast, downward swing meant to slice straight through the dragon's neck. Just as the sharp edges of the blade are about to make contact with Smaug's soft, delicate human flesh, the beast's right hand snaps up and tightly grasps Dean's right wrist.

Dean gasps in surprise and pain as the sword drops from his clutches and the dragon rises to face his opponent. I can't see it, since I'm a little busy trying to maintain footing with Cindy riding my back, but I can tell the dragon is currently searing Dean's skin.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters through gritted teeth while dragon boy brings him to his knees.

But Dean is not so easily defeated, and lays a stiff left hook into the dragon's temple.

I can't deny how much I'd love to take the time to marvel at the sight of Dean Winchester fist-fighting a dragon in a dungeon. I really should find a way to help him, though. Which means finding a way to get Cindy - who, despite her inferior level of strength - can really hold on.

I'm just glad she's not sinking her nails into me.

Okay, how do I go about peeling this girl off of me? I was raised to never, _ever_ hit a woman, so that's out. She's not even a monster, so there's no justifying a quick bend in the rules.

Maybe I should charge in with her on my back?

I swirl around as I attempt to break free from her clutches when I notice the five young women who look on with fascination. I'm a little surprised they didn't try to make a break for it in the confusion. At the moment, I'm also entirely grateful they're still here.

"A little help here, ladies?" I kindly request, motioning to Cindy.

I don't have to ask twice. They're more than happy to oblige my request, taking pleasure in lunging at their "friend". Even with their wrists shackled, the five young women easily manage to peel Cindy off my back.

Free at last, I take aim at the dragon who now has Dean pinned to the ground.

"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter to myself, looking between my hand gun and the broken sword just feet away from the most epic fist fight I've ever seen.

I slip my gun into my jacket pocket before swiftly scooping up the broken blade. Luckily for me, Smaug is too distracted with Dean to notice what I'm up to. With a fluid, downward thrust, the sword slides through the back of the dragon's neck, catching both dragon and Dean by surprise.

Before too much blood can spill onto the older hunter's face, Dean rolls the shocked (and choking) beast off of him and scrambles to his feet. He stands beside me with a heavy breath as we both watch the light switch off in the monster's eyes.

Oh my god. I just slayed a dragon.

I really just slayed a dragon.

Not only that, I saved Dean Winchester. I freaking saved him while passing his little test with extra credit points.

Best. Day. Ever. Not even Cindy's painful sobbing can bring me down from the giddy high I'm currently feeling.

"Go find those bolt cutters," Dean instructs me, no where near as excited as I am. "I think these ladies have been here long enough."

I'm so ecstatic, not even Dean's general surliness can bring me down right now.

xXxXxXx

I should have known better than to expect my excitement to last long. By which I mean, I found the buzz kill and his name is Dean Winchester.

I wait to hear a "thank you" while we cut the chains that bind the girl's shackles. I wait to hear "good job" while we clean up the dragon corpse. I expect to hear "good idea" when I collect a jar of dragon's blood for bullets so I can just shoot the damn thing next time. I half hope to at least hear "you passed the test" when we make sure the police are on their way to collect the young women and arrest Cindy.

But nothing ever comes.

"Did you have something you might want to say to me?" I boldly question once we've safely returned to our motel room, still a little buzzed from all the enthusiastic adrenaline.

"This isn't about feelings, is it?" Dean returns with a look of distaste.

"No," I shake my head.

"In that case, yeah," he says with a short nod. "I guess I do." He pauses as he fishes out his flask. "It's your turn to go on a food run. Don't forget the beer." Pause. "Pick me up some whiskey too, would you?"  
That's not at all what I was fishing for.

But I do it anyway. Maybe he'll thank me when I get back.

_Quit kidding yourself, Ben. He's never going to pat your back. Hell, he'll probably never even admit that you saved him._

What am I even doing here with him anymore? Sure he's taught me a thing or two, but most of what I've learned is about him. He's not the man I thought he was, or the man I thought he could eventually be to me.

Really, he's just an unpleasant, jaded old hunter. A really good one, mind you. But unpleasant none the less.

Upon returning to the motel, I over hear another one of Dean's private conversations flow from beyond the closed door and I take pause to listen.

"... thought you had a lead?" his voice floats through the walls. "What do you mean it wasn't the right one? How many angels are left on earth these days, anyway?" Pause. "Of course I took care of the dragon. You were supposed to be tracking down Cas while I was doing your job." Pause. "Yeah, no. Okay. Fine. Just keep an ear out. Please?"

After the conversation seems to have ended, I can distinctly hear an aggravated growl seconds before the familiar sound of a phone shattering against a wall calls out.

I guess this is why I've stuck around this long. Despite the fact he refuses to acknowledge it, I'm all Dean's got now. And, despite everything, he is kind of the closest thing I've had to a real dad since, well, ever.

Still, I wonder how much longer I can keep going like this?

* * *

_I had to come up with some of my own dragon lore for this since there's not a lot jotted down in the Supernatural universe. I assure you no virgins (or other) were harmed in the making of this chapter, nor were they harmed in the story._

_Also, fair warning/disclaimer to my faithful readers; my time is running a bit short right now. I am over eight months pregnant, so I will be a little preoccupied in the near future (somewhere in 2-6 weeks). Personally I plan on finishing this before the day comes, but I can't make any guarantees. I mean, 2-6 weeks is kind of an ambiguous time frame and I'm not going to lie, naps are pretty great right now._

_I will try like hell to get this done before I have double mom duty, but if I don't, I apologize for any prolonged hiatus that may occur. Know the story won't be abandoned and it will be updated as soon as possible._

_Thanks in advance!_


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